CHAPTER I.
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Anxious, she hovers o'er the web the while,
Reads, as it grows, thy figured story there;
Now she explains the texture with a smile,
And now the woof interprets with a tear.
Fawcett.
All Maud's feelings were healthful and natural. She had
no exaggerated sentiments, and scarcely art enough to control
or to conceal any of the ordinary impulses of her heart.
We are not about to relate a scene, therefore, in which a
long-cherished but hidden miniature of the young man is to
play a conspicuous part, and to be the means of revealing
to two lovers the state of their respective hearts; but one of
a very different character. It is true, Maud had endeavoured
to make, from memory, one or two sketches of “Bob's”
face; but she had done it openly, and under the cognizance
of the whole family. This she might very well do,
indeed, in her usual character of a sister, and excite no
comments. In these efforts, her father and mother, and
Beulah, had uniformly pronounced her success to be far
beyond their hopes; but Maud, herself, had thrown them
all aside, half-finished, dissatisfied with her own labours.
Like the author, whose fertile imagination fancies pictures
that defy his powers of description, her pencil ever fell far
short of the face that her memory kept so constantly in view.
This sketch wanted animation, that gentleness, another fire,
and a fourth candour; in short, had Maud begun a thousand,
all would have been deficient, in her eyes, in some great
essential of perfection. Still, she had no secret about her
efforts, and half-a-dozen of these very sketches lay
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uppermost in her portfolio, when she spread it, and its contents,
before the eyes of the original.
Major Willoughby thought Maud had never appeared
more beautiful than as she moved about making her little
preparations for the exhibition. Pleasure heightened her
colour; and there was such a mixture of frank, sisterly
regard, in every glance of her eye, blended, however, with
sensitive feeling, and conscious womanly reserve, as made
her a thousand times — measuring amounts by the young
man's sensations — more interesting than he had ever seen
her. The lamp gave but an indifferent light for a gallery,
but it was sufficient to betray Maud's smiles, and blushes,
and each varying emotion of her charming countenance.
“Now, Bob,” she said, opening her portfolio, with all her
youthful frankness and confidence, “you know well enough
I am not one of those old masters of whom you used to talk
so much, but your own pupil—the work of your own hands;
and if you find more faults than you have expected, you
will have the goodness to remember that the master has
deserted his peaceful pursuits to go a campaigning—there—
that is a caricature of your own countenance, staring you
in the face, as a preface!”
“This is like, I should think—was it done from memory,
dear Maud?”
“How else should it be done? All our entreaties have
never been able to persuade you to send us even a miniature.
You are wrong in this, Bob” — by no accident did Maud
now ever call the major, Robert, though Beulah often did.
There was a desperate sort of familiarity in the Bob, that
she could easily adopt; but the `Robert' had a family sound
that she disliked; and yet a more truly feminine creature
than Maud Meredith did not exist—“You are wrong, Bob;
for mother actually pines to possess your picture, in some
shape or other. It was this wish that induced me to attempt
these things.”
“And why has no one of them ever been finished?—Here
are six or eight beginnings, and all, more or less, like, I
should think, and not one of them more than half done.
Why have I been treated so cavalierly, Miss Maud?”
The fair artist's colour deepened a little; but her smile
was quite as sweet as it was saucy, as she replied—
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“Girlish caprice, I suppose. I like neither of them; and
of that which a woman dislikes, she will have none. To be
candid, however, I hardly think there is one of them all that
does you justice.”
“No?—what fault have you to find with this? This might
be worked up to something very natural.”
“It would be a natural, then — it wants expression, fearfully.”
“And this, which is still better. That might be finished
while I am here, and I will give you some sittings.”
“Even mother dislikes that — there is too much of the
Major of Foot in it. Mr. Woods says it is a martial picture.”
“And ought not a soldier to look like a soldier? To me,
now, that seems a capital beginning.”
“It is not what mother, or Beulah — or father — or even
any of us wants. It is too full of Bunker's Hill. Your
friends desire to see you as you appear to them; not as you
appear to your enemies.”
“Upon my word, Maud, you have made great advances
in the art! This is a view of the Knoll, and the dam—and
here is another of the mill, and the water-fall — all beautifully
done, and in water-colours, too. What is this? —
Have you been attempting a sketch of yourself! — The
glass must have been closely consulted, my fair coquette, to
enable you to do this!”
The blood had rushed into Maud's face, covering it with
a rich tell-tale mantle, when her companion first alluded to
the half-finished miniature he held in his hand; then her
features resembled ivory, as the revulsion of feeling, that
overcame her confusion, followed. For some little time she
sate, in breathless stillness, with her looks cast upon the floor,
conscious that Robert Willoughby was glancing from her
own face to the miniature, and from the miniature to her
face again, making his observations and comparisons. Then
she ventured to raise her eyes timidly towards his, half-imploringly,
as if to beseech him to proceed to something
else. But the young man was too much engrossed with the
exceedingly pretty sketch he held in his hand, to understand
her meaning, or to comply with her wishes.
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“This is yourself, Maud!” he cried—“though in a strange
sort of dress—why have you spoilt so beautiful a thing, by
putting it in this masquerade?”
“It is not myself — it is a copy of — a miniature I possess.”
“A miniature you possess! — Of whom can you possess
so lovely a miniature, and I never see it?”
A faint smile illumined the countenance of Maud, and the
blood began to return to her cheeks. She stretched her hand
over to the sketch, and gazed on it, with intense feeling,
until the tears began to stream from her eyes.
“Maud—dear, dearest Maud — have I said that which
pains you?—I do not understand all this, but I confess there
are secrets to which I can have no claim to be admitted—”
“Nay, Bob, this is making too much of what, after all,
must sooner or later be spoken of openly among us. I believe
that to be a copy of a miniature of my mother.”
“Of mother, Maud — you are beside yourself — it has
neither her features, expression, nor the colour of her eyes.
It is the picture of a far handsomer woman, though mother
is still pretty; and it is perfection!”
“I mean of my mother—of Maud Yeardley; the wife of
my father, Major Meredith.”
This was said with a steadiness that surprised our heroine
herself, when she came to think over all that had passed,
and it brought the blood to her companion's heart, in a
torrent.
“This is strange!” exclaimed Willoughby, after a short
pause. “And my mother—our mother has given you the
original, and told you this? I did not believe she could
muster the resolution necessary to such an act.”
“She has not. You know, Bob, I am now of age; and
my father, a month since, put some papers in my hand,
with a request that I would read them. They contain a
marriage settlement and other things of that sort, which
show I am mistress of more money than I should know what
to do with, if it were not for dear little Evert—but, with such
a precious being to love, one never can have too much of
anything. With the papers were many trinkets, which I
suppose father never looked at. This beautiful miniature
was among the last; and I feel certain, from some remarks
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I ventured to make, mother does not know of its existence.”
As Maud spoke, she drew the original from her bosom,
and placed it in Robert Willoughby's hands. When this
simple act was performed, her mind seemed relieved; and
she waited, with strong natural interest, to hear Robert
Willoughby's comments.
“This, then, Maud, was your own—your real mother!”
the young man said, after studying the miniature, with a
thoughtful countenance, for near a minute. “It is like her—
like you.”
“Like her, Bob?—How can you know anything of that?—
I suppose it to be my mother, because I think it like myself,
and because it is not easy to say who else it can be.
But you cannot know anything of this?”
“You are mistaken, Maud — I remember both your parents
well — it could not be otherwise, as they were the
bosom friends of my own. You will remember that I am
now eight-and-twenty, and that I had seen seven of these
years when you were born. Was my first effort in arms
never spoken of in your presence?”
“Never—perhaps it was not a subject for me to hear, if
it were in any manner connected with my parents.”
“You are right—that must be the reason it has been kept
from your ears.”
“Surely, surely, I am old enough to hear it now — you
will conceal nothing from me, Bob?”
“If I would, I could not, now. It is too late, Maud. You
know the manner in which Major Meredith died?—”
“He fell in battle, I have suspected,” answered the daughter,
in a suppressed, doubtful tone — “for no one has ever
directly told me even that.”
“He did, and I was at his side. The French and savages
made an assault on us, about an hour earlier than this, and
our two fathers rushed to the pickets to repel it — I was a
reckless boy, anxious even at that tender age to see a fray,
and was at their side. Your father was one of the first that
fell; but Joyce and our father beat the Indians back from
his body, and saved it from mutilation. Your mother was
buried in the same grave, and then you came to us, where
our have been ever since.”
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Maud's tears flowed fast, and yet it was not so much in
grief as in a gush of tenderness she could hardly explain to
herself. Robert Willoughby understood her emotions, and
perceived that he might proceed.
“I was old enough to remember both your parents well—
I was a favourite, I believe, with, certainly was much petted
by, both—I remember your birth, Maud, and was suffered
to carry you in my arms, ere you were a week old.”
“Then you have known me for an impostor from the beginning,
Bob—must have often thought of me as such!”
“I have known you for the daughter of Lewellen Meredith,
certainly; and not for a world would I have you the
real child of Hugh Willoughby—”
“Bob!” exclaimed Maud, her heart beating violently, a
rush of feeling nearly overcoming her, in which alarm, consciousness,
her own secret, dread of something wrong, and
a confused glimpse of the truth, were all so blended, as
nearly to deprive her, for the moment, of the use of her
senses.
It is not easy to say precisely what would have followed
this tolerably explicit insight into the state of the young
man's feelings, had not an outcry on the lawn given the
major notice that his presence was needed below. With a
few words of encouragement to Maud, first taking the precaution
to extinguish the lamp, lest its light should expose
her to a shot in passing some of the open loops, he sprang
towards the stairs, and was at his post again, literally within
a minute. Nor was he a moment too soon. The alarm
was general, and it was understood an assault was momentarily
expected.
The situation of Robert Willoughby was now tantalizing
in the extreme. Ignorant of what was going on in front,
he saw no enemy in the rear to oppose, and was condemned
to inaction, at a moment when he felt that, by training,
years, affinity to the master of the place, and all the usual
considerations, he ought to be in front, opposed to the enemy.
It is probable he would have forgotten his many cautions to
keep close, had not Maud appeared in the library, and implored
him to remain concealed, at least until there was the
certainty his presence was necessary elsewhere.
At that instant, every feeling but those connected with the
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danger, was in a degree forgotten. Still, Willoughby had
enough consideration for Maud to insist on her joining her
mother and Beulah, in the portion of the building where the
absence of external windows rendered their security complete,
so long as the foe could be kept without the palisades.
In this he succeeded, but not until he had promised, again
and again, to be cautious in not exposing himself at any of
the windows, the day having now fairly dawned, and particularly
not to let it be known in the Hut that he was present
until it became indispensable.
The major felt relieved when Maud had left him. For
her, he had no longer any immediate apprehensions, and he
turned all his faculties to the sounds of the assault which
he supposed to be going on in front. To his surprise, however,
no discharges of fire-arms succeeded; and even the
cries, and orders, and calling from point to point, that are a
little apt to succeed an alarm in an irregular garrison, had
entirely ceased; and it became doubtful whether the whole
commotion did not proceed from a false alarm. The Smashes,
in particular, whose vociferations for the first few minutes
had been of a very decided kind, were now mute; and the
exclamations of the women and children had ceased.
Major Willoughby was too good a soldier to abandon his
post without orders, though bitterly did he regret the facility
with which he had consented to accept so inconsiderable a
command. He so far disregarded his instructions, however,
as to place his whole person before a window, in order to
reconnoitre; for it was now broad day-light, though the sun
had not yet risen. Nothing rewarded this careless exposure;
and then it flashed upon his mind that, as the commander
of a separate detachment, he had a perfect right to employ
any of his immediate subordinates, either as messengers or
scouts. His choice of an agent was somewhat limited, it is
true, lying between Mike and the Plinys; after a moment
of reflection, he determined to choose the former.
Mike was duly relieved from his station at the door, the
younger Pliny being substituted for him, and he was led
into the library. Here he received hasty but clear orders
from the major how he was to proceed, and was thrust,
rather than conducted from the room, in his superior's haste
to hear the tidings. Three or four minutes might have
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elapsed, when an irregular volley of musketry was heard in
front; then succeeded an answering discharge, which sounded
smothered and distant. A single musket came from the
garrison a minute later, and then Mike rushed into the library,
his eyes dilated with a sort of wild delight, dragging rather
than carrying his piece after him.
“The news!” exclaimed the major, as soon as he got a
glimpse of his messenger. “What mean these volleys,
and how comes on my father in front?”
“Is it what do they mane?” answered Mike. “Well,
there's but one maning to powther and ball, and that's far
more sarious than shillelah wor-r-k. If the rapscallions
didn't fire a whole plathoon, as serjeant Joyce calls it, right
at the Knoll, my name is not Michael O'Hearn, or my nature
one that dales in giving back as good as I get.”
“But the volley came first from the house—why did my
father order his people to make the first discharge?”
“For the same r'ason that he didn't. Och! there was a
big frown on his f'atures, when he heard the rifles and
muskets; and Mr. Woods never pr'ached more to the purpose
than the serjeant himself, ag'in that same. But to think
of them rapscallions answering a fire that was ag'in orders!
Not a word did his honour say about shooting any of them,
and they just pulled their triggers on the house all the same
as if it had been logs growing in senseless and uninhabited
trees, instead of a rational and well p'apled abode. Och!
ar'n't they vagabonds!”
“If you do not wish to drive me mad, man, tell me clearly
what has past, that I may understand you.”
“Is it understand that's wanting?—Lord, yer honour,
if ye can understand that Misther Strhides, that's yon, ye'll
be a wise man. He calls hisself a `son of the poor'atin's,'
and poor 'ating it must have been, in the counthry of his
faders, to have produced so lane and skinny a baste as that
same. The orders was as partic'lar as tongue of man could
utter, and what good will it all do?—Ye're not to fire, says
serjeant Joyce, till ye all hear the wor-r-d; and the divil of
a wor-r-d did they wait for; but blaze away did they, jist
becaase a knot of savages comes on to them rocks ag'in,
where they had possession all yesterday afthernoon; and
sure it is common enough to breakfast where a man sups.”
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“You mean to say that the Indians have reappeared on
the rocks, and that some of Strides's men fired at them,
without orders?—Is that the history of the affair?”
“It's jist that, majjor; and little good, or little har-r-m,
did it do. Joel, and his poor'atin's, blazed away at 'em, as
if they had been so many christians—and 'twould have done
yer heart good to have heard the serjeant belabour them
with hard wor-r-ds, for their throuble. There's none of the
poor'atin' family in the serjeant, who's a mighty man wid
his tongue!”
“And the savages returned the volley — which explains
the distant discharge I heard.”
“Anybody can see, majjor, that ye're yer father's son,
and a souldier bor-r-n. Och! who would of t'ought of that,
but one bred and bor-r-n in the army? Yes; the savages
sent back as good as they got, which was jist not'in' at all,
seein' that no one is har-r-m'd.”
“And the single piece that followed—there was one discharge,
by itself?”
Mike opened his mouth with a grin that might have put
either of the Plinys to shame, it being rather a favourite
theory with the descendants of the puritans—or “poor'atin's,”
as the county Leitrim-man called Joel and his set—
that the Irishman was more than a match for any son of
Ham at the Knoll, in the way of capacity about this portion
of the human countenance. The major saw that there was
a good deal of self-felicitation in the expression of Mike's
visage, and he demanded an explanation in more direct
terms.
“'Twas I did it, majjor, and 'twas as well fired a piece
as ye've ever hear-r-d in the king's sarvice. Divil bur-r-n
me, if I lets Joel get any such advantage over me, as to
have a whole battle to himself. No — no — as soon as I
smelt his Yankee powther, and could get my own musket
cock'd, and pointed out of the forthifications, I lets 'em have
it, as if it had been so much breakfast ready cooked to their
hands. 'Twas well pointed, too; for I'm not the man to
shoot into a fri'nd's countenance.”
“And you broke the orders for a reason no better than
the fact that Strides had broken them before?”
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“Divil a bit, majjor—Joel had broken the orders, ye see,
and that settled the matter. The thing that is once broken
is broken, and wor-r-ds can't mend it, any more than forbearin'
to fire a gun will mend it.”
By dint of cross-questioning, Robert Willoughby finally
succeeded in getting something like an outline of the truth
from Mike. The simple facts were, that the Indians had
taken possession of their old bivouac, as soon as the day
dawned, and had commenced their preparations for breakfast,
when Joel, the miller, and a few of that set, in a paroxysm
of valour, had discharged a harmless volley at
them; the distance rendering the attempt futile. This fire
had been partially returned, the whole concluding with the
finale from the Irishman's gun, as has been related. As it
was now too light to apprehend a surprise, and the ground
in front of the palisade had no very dangerous covers, Robert
Willoughby was emboldened to send one of the Plinys
to request an interview with his father. In a few minutes
the latter appeared, accompanied by Mr. Woods.
“The same party has reappeared, and seems disposed to
occupy its old position near the mill,” said the captain, in
answer to his son's inquiries. “It is difficult to say what
the fellows have in view; and there are moments when I
think there are more or less whites among them. I suggested
as much to Strides, chaplain; and I thought the fellow appeared
to receive the notion as if he thought it might be
true.”
“Joel is a little of an enigma to me, captain Willoughby,”
returned the chaplain; “sometimes seizing an idea like a
cat pouncing upon a rat, and then coquetting with it, as the
same cat will play with a mouse, when it has no appetite
for food.”
“Och! he's a precious poor'atin'!” growled Mike, from
his corner of the room.
“If whites are among the savages, why should they not
make themselves known?” demanded Robert Willoughby.
“Your character, sir, is no secret; and they must be acquainted
with their own errand here.”
“I will send for Strides, and get his opinion a little more
freely,” answered the captain, after a moment of deliberation.
“You will withdraw, Bob; though, by leaving your
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door a little ajar, the conversation will reach you; and prevent
the necessity of a repetition.”
As Robert Willoughby was not unwilling to hear what
the overseer might have to say in the present state of things,
he did not hesitate about complying, withdrawing into his
own room as requested, and leaving the door ajar, in a way
to prevent suspicion of his presence, as far as possible. But,
Joel Strides, like all bad men, ever suspected the worst. The
innocent and pure of mind alone are without distrust; while
one constituted morally, like the overseer, never permitted his
thoughts to remain in the tranquillity that is a fruit of confidence.
Conscious of his own evil intentions, his very nature
put on armour against the same species of machinations in
others, as the hedge-hog rolls himself into a ball, and thrusts
out his quills, at the sight of the dog. Had not captain
Willoughby been one of those who are slow to see evil, he
might have detected something wrong in Joel's feelings, by
the very first glance he cast about him, on entering the
library.
In point of fact, Strides' thoughts had not been idle since
the rencontre of the previous night. Inquisitive, and under
none of the usual restraints of delicacy, he had already
probed all he dared approach on the subject; and, by this
time, had become perfectly assured that there was some
mystery about the unknown individual whom he had met in
his master's company. To own the truth, Joel did not suspect
that major Willoughby had again ventured so far into
the lion's den; but he fancied that some secret agent of the
crown was at the Hut, and that the circumstance offered a
fair opening for helping the captain down the ladder of
public favour, and to push himself up a few of its rounds.
He was not sorry, therefore, to be summoned to this conference,
hoping it might lead to some opening for farther discoveries.
“Sit down, Strides”—said captain. Willoughby, motioning
towards a chair so distant from the open door of the
bed-room, and so placed as to remove the danger of too
close a proximity—“Sit down—I wish to consult you about
the state of things towards the mills. To me it seems as
if there were more pale-faces than red-skins among our
visiters.”
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“That's not onlikely, captain—the people has got to be
greatly given to paintin' and imitatin', sin' the hatchet has
been dug up ag'in the British. The tea-boys were all in
Indian fashion.”
“True; but, why should white men assume such a disguise
to come to the Knoll? I am not conscious of having
an enemy on earth who could meditate harm to me or
mine.”
Alas! poor captain. That a man at sixty should yet
have to learn that the honest, and fair-dealing, and plain-dealing,
and affluent—for captain Willoughby was affluent
in the eyes of those around him — that such a man should
imagine he was without enemies, was to infer that the Spirit
of Darkness had ceased to exercise his functions among
men. Joel knew better, though he did not perceive any
necessity, just then, for letting the fact reach the ears of the
party principally concerned.
“A body might s'pose the captain was pop'lar, if any
man is pop'lar,” answered the overseer; “nor do I know
that visiters in paint betoken onpopularity to a person in
these times more than another. May I ask why the captain
consaits these Injins a'nt Injins? To me, they have a desperate
savage look, though I a'n't much accustomed to redskin
usages.”
“Their movements are too open, and yet too uncertain,
for warriors of the tribes. I think a savage, by this time,
would have made up his mind to act as friend or foe.”
Joel seemed struck with the idea; and the expression of
his countenance, which on entering had been wily, distrustful
and prying, suddenly changed to that of deep reflection.
“Has the captain seen anything else, partic'lar, to confirm
this idee?” he asked.
“Their encampment, careless manner of moving, and
unguarded exposure of their persons, are all against their
being Indians.”
“The messenger they sent across the meadow, yesterday,
seemed to me to be a Mohawk?”
“He was. Of his being a real red-skin there can be no
question. But he could neither speak nor understand English.
The little that passed between us was in Low Dutch.
Our dialogue was short; for, apprehensive of treachery, I
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brought it to a close sooner than I might otherwise have
done.”
“Yes; treachery is a cruel thing,” observed the conscientious
Joel; “a man can't be too strongly on his guard
ag'in it. Does the captain ra'ally calcilate on defending the
house, should a serious attempt be brought forward for the
day?”
“Do I! That is an extraordinary question, Mr. Strides.
Why have I built in this mode, if I have no such intention?—
why palisaded?—why armed and garrisoned, if not in
earnest?”
“I s'posed all this might have been done to prevent a
surprise, but not in any hope of standin' a siege. I should
be sorry to see all our women and children shut up under
one roof, if the inimy came ag'in us, in airnest, with fire and
sword.”
“And I should be sorry to see them anywhere else. But,
this is losing time. My object in sending for you, Joel, was
to learn your opinion about the true character of our visiters.
Have you any opinion, or information to give me, on that
point?”
Joel placed his elbow on his knee, and his chin in the
palm of his hand, and pondered on what had been suggested,
with seeming good-will, and great earnestness.
“If any one could be found venturesome enough to go
out with a flag,” he at length remarked, “the whole truth
might be come at, in a few minutes.”
“And who shall I employ? Cheerfully would I go myself,
were such a step military, or at all excusable in one in
my situation.”
“If the likes of myself will sarve yer honour's turn,” put
in Mike, promptly, and yet with sufficient diffidence as regarded
his views of his own qualifications — “there'll be
nobody to gainsay that same; and it isn't wilcome that I
nade tell you, ye'll be to use me as ye would yer own property.”
“I hardly think Mike would answer,” observed Joel, not
altogether without a sneer. “He scurce knows an Indian
from a white man; when it comes to the paint, it would
throw him into dreadful confusion.”
“If ye thinks that I am to be made to believe in any more
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Ould Nicks, Misther Strhides, then ye're making a mistake
in my nature. Let but the captain say the word, and I'll
go to the mill and bring in a grist of them same, or l'ave
my own body for toll.”
“I do not doubt you in the least, Mike,” captain Willoughby
mildly observed; “but there will be no occasion,
just now, of your running any such risks. I shall be able
to find other truce-bearers.”
“It seems the captain has his man in view,” Joel said,
keenly eyeing his master. “Perhaps 't is the same I saw
out with him last night. That's a reliable person, I do
s'pose.”
“You have hit the nail on the head. It was the man who
was out last night, at the same time I was out myself, and
his name is Joel Strides.”
“The captain's a little musical, this morning—waal—if
go I must, as there was two on us out, let us go to these
savages together. I saw enough of that man, to know he
is reliable; and if he'll go, I'll go.”
“Agreed” — said Robert Willoughby, stepping into the
library—“I take you at your word, Mr. Strides; you and I
will run what risks there may be, in order to relieve this
family from its present alarming state.”
The captain was astounded, though he knew not whether
to be displeased or to rejoice. As for Mike, his countenance
expressed great dissatisfaction; for he ever fancied things
were going wrong so long as Joel obtained his wishes.
Strides, himself, threw a keen glance at the stranger, recognised
him at a glance, and had sufficient self-command to
conceal his discovery, though taken completely by surprise.
The presence of the major, however, immediately removed
all his objections to the proposed expedition; since, should
the party prove friendly to the Americans, he would be safe
on his own account; or, should it prove the reverse, a king's
officer could not fail to be a sufficient protection.
“The gentleman's a total stranger to me,” Joel hypocritically
resumed; “but as the captain has belief in him, I
must have the same. I am ready to do the ar'n'd, therefore,
as soon as it is agreeable.”
“This is well, captain Willoughby,” put in the major, in
order to anticipate any objections from his father; “and the
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sooner a thing of this sort is done, the better will it be for
all concerned. I am ready to proceed this instant; and I
take it this worthy man—I think you called him Strides—
is quite as willing.”
Joel signified his assent; and the captain, perceiving no
means of retreat, was fain to yield. He took the major
into the bed-room, however, and held a minute's private
discourse, when he returned, and bade the two go forth together.
“Your companion has his instructions, Joel,” the captain
observed, as they left the library together; “and you will
follow his advice. Show the white flag as soon as you quit
the gate; if they are true warriors, it must be respected.”
Robert Willoughby was too intent on business, and too
fearful of the reappearance and reproachful looks of Maud,
to delay. He had passed the court, and was at the outer
gate, before any of the garrison even noted his appearance
among them. Here, indeed, the father's heart felt a pang;
and, but for his military pride, the captain would gladly
have recalled his consent. It was too late, however; and,
squeezing his hand, he suffered his son to pass outward.
Joel followed steadily, as to appearances, though not without
misgivings as to what might be the consequences to himself
and his growing family.
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CHAPTER II.
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“I worship not the sun at noon,
The wandering stars, the changing moon,
The wind, the flood, the flame;
I will not bow the votive knee
To wisdom, virtue, liberty;
There is no god, but God for me,
Jehovah is his name.”
Montgomery.
So sudden and unexpected had been the passage of Robert
Willoughby through the court, and among the men on post
without the inner gates, that no one recognised his person.
A few saw that a stranger was in their midst; but, under
his disguise, no one was quick enough of eye and thought
to ascertain who that stranger was. The little white flag
that they displayed, denoted the errand of the messengers;
the rest was left to conjecture.
As soon as captain Willoughby ascertained that the alarm
of the morning was not likely to lead to any immediate results,
he had dismissed all the men, with the exception of a
small guard, that was stationed near the outer gate, under
the immediate orders of serjeant Joyce. The latter was one
of those soldiers who view the details of the profession as
forming its great essentials; and when he saw his commander
about to direct a sortie, it formed his pride not to
ask questions, and to seem to know nothing about it. To
this, Jamie Allen, who composed one of the guard, quietly
assented; but it was a great privation to the three or four
New England-men to be commanded not to inquire into the
why and wherefore.
“Wait for orders, men, wait for orders,” observed the
serjeant, by way of quieting an impatience that was very
apparent. “If his honour, the captain, wished us to be acquainted
with his movements, he would direct a general
parade, and lay the matter before us, as you know he always
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does, on proper occasions. 'Tis a flag going out, as you
can see, and should a truce follow, we'll lay aside our
muskets, and seize the plough-shares; should it be a capitulation—
I know our brave old commander too well to
suppose it possible—but should it be even that, we'll ground
arms like men, and make the best of it.”
“And should Joel, and the other man, who is a stranger
to me, be scalped?” demanded one of the party.
“Then we'll avenge their scalps. That was the way
with us, when my Lord Howe fell—`avenge his death!'
cried our colonel; and on we pushed, until near two thousand
of us fell before the Frenchmen's trenches. Oh! that
was a sight worth seeing, and a day to talk of!”
“Yes, but you were threshed soundly, serjeant, as I've
heard from many that were there.”
“What of that, sir! we obeyed orders. `Avenge his
death!' was the cry; and on we pushed, in obedience, until
there were not men enough left in our battalion to carry the
wounded to the rear.”
“And what did you do with them?” asked a youth, who
regarded the serjeant as another Cæsar — Napoleon not
having come into notice in 1776.
“We let them lie where they fell. Young man, war
teaches us all the wholesome lesson that impossibilities are
impossible to be done. War is the great schoolmaster of the
human race; and a learned man is he who has made nineteen
or twenty campaigns.”
“If he live to turn his lessons to account”—remarked the
first speaker, with a sneer.
“If a man is to die in battle, sir, he had better die with
his mind stored with knowledge, than be shot like a dog
that has outlived his usefulness. Every pitched battle carries
out of the world learning upon learning that has been
got in the field. Here comes his honour, who will confirm
all I tell you, men. I was letting these men, sir, understand
that the army and the field are the best schools on earth.
Every old soldier will stick to that, your honour.”
“We are apt to think so, Joyce—have the arms been inspected
this morning?”
“As soon as it was light, I did that myself, sir.”
“Flints, cartridge-boxes and bayonets, I hope?”
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“Each and all, sir. Does your honour remember the
morning we had the affair near Fort du Quesne?”
“You mean Braddock's defeat, I suppose, Joyce?”
“I call nothing a defeat, captain Willoughby. We were
roughly handled that day, sir; but I am not satisfied it was
a defeat. It is true, we fell back, and lost some arms and
stores; but, in the main, we stuck to our colours, considering
it was in the woods. No, sir; I do not call that a defeat,
by any means.”
“You will at least own we were hard pressed, and might
have fared worse than we did, had it not been for a certain
colonial corps, that manfully withstood the savages?”
“Yes, sir; that I allow. I remember the corps, and its
commander, a colonel Washington, with your honour's permission.”
“It was, indeed, Joyce. And do you happen to know
what has became of this same colonel Washington?”
“It never crossed my mind to inquire, sir, as he was a
provincial. I dare say he may have a regiment — or even
a brigade by this time; and good use would he make of
either.”
“You have fallen far behind his fortunes, Joyce. The
man is a commander-in-chief—a captain-general.”
“Your honour is jesting—since many of his seniors are
still living.”
“This is the man who leads the American armies, in the
war with England.”
“Well, sir, in that way, he may indeed get a quick step,
or two. I make no doubt, sir, so good a soldier will know
how to obey orders.”
“From which I infer you think him right, in the cause
he has espoused?”
“Bless your honour, sir, I think nothing about it, and
care nothing about it. If the gentleman has taken service
with congress, as they call the new head-quarters, why he
ought to obey congress; and if he serve the king, His Majesty's
orders should be attended to.”
“And, in this crisis, serjeant, may I ask in what particular
service you conceive yourself to be, just at the present
moment?”
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“Captain Willoughby's, late of His Majesty's —th
Regiment of Foot, at your honour's command.”
“If all act in the same spirit, Joyce, we shall do well
enough at the Knoll, though twice as many savages brave
us as are to be seen on you rocks,” returned the captain,
smiling.
“And why should they no?” demanded Jamie Allen,
earnestly. “Ye're laird here, and we've no the time, nor
the grace, to study and understand the orthodoxy and heterodoxy
of the quarrel atween the House of Hanover and
the houses of these Americans; so, while we a' stand up
for the house and household of our old maister, the Lord
will smile on our efforts, and lead us to victory.”
“Divil bur-r-n me, now, Jamie,” said Mike, who having
seen the major to the gate, now followed his father, in
readiness to do him any good turn that might offer—“Divil
bur-r-n me, now, Jamie, if ye could have said it better had
ye just aised yer conscience to a proper praist, and were
talking on a clane breast! Stick up for the captain, says I,
and the Lord will be of our side!”
The serjeant nodded approbation of this sentiment, and
the younger Pliny, who happened also to be within hearing,
uttered the sententious word “gosh,” and clenched his fist,
which was taken as proof of assent also, on his part. But,
the Americans of the guard, all of whom were the tools of
Joel's and the miller's arts, manifested a coldness that even
exceeded the usual cold manner of their class. These men
meant right; but they had been deluded by the falsehoods,
machinations, and frauds of a demagogue, and were no
longer masters of their own opinions or acts. It struck the
captain that something was wrong; but, a foreigner by birth
himself, he had early observed, and long known, the peculiar
exterior and phlegm of the people of the country, which
so nearly resemble the stoicism of the aborigines, as to induce
many writers to attribute both alike to a cause connected
with climate. The present was not a moment however,
nor was the impression strong enough to induce the
master of the place to enter into any inquiries. Turning
his eyes in the direction of the two bearers of the flag, he
there beheld matter for new interest, completely diverting
his thoughts from what had just passed.
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“I see they have sent two men to meet our messengers,
serjeant,” he said—“This looks as if they understood the
laws of war.”
“Quite true, your honour. They should now blindfold
our party, and lead them within their own works, before
they suffer them to see at all; though there would be no
great advantage in it, as Strides is as well acquainted with
every inch of that rock as I am with the manual exercise.”
“Which would seem to supersede the necessity of the
ceremony you have mentioned?”
“One never knows, your honour. Blindfolding is according
to the rules, and I should blindfold a flag before I let
him approach, though the hostile ranks stood drawn up, one
on each side of a parade ground. Much is gained, while
nothing is ever lost, by sticking to the rules of a trade.”
The captain smiled, as did all the Americans of the guard;
the last having too much sagacity not to perceive that a
thing might be overdone, as well as too little attended to.
As for Jamie and Mike, they both received the serjeant's
opinions as law; the one from having tried the troops of the
line at Culloden, and the other on account of divers experiences
through which he had gone, at sundry fairs, in his
own green island. By this time, however, all were too
curious in watching the result of the meeting, to continue
the discourse.
Robert Willoughby and Joel had moved along the lane,
towards the rocks, without hesitating, keeping their little
flag flying. It did not appear that their approach produced
any change among the savages, who were now preparing
their breakfasts, until they had got within two hundred yards
of the encampment, when two of the red-men, having first
laid aside their arms, advanced to meet their visiters. This
was the interview which attracted the attention of those at
the Hut, and its progress was noted with the deepest interest.
The meeting appeared to be friendly. After a short conference,
in which signs seemed to be a material agent in the
communications, the four moved on in company, walking
deliberately towards the rocks. Captain Willoughby had
sent for his field-glass, and could easily perceive much that
occurred in the camp, on the arrival of his son. The major's
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[figure description] Page 023.[end figure description]
movements were calm and steady, and a feeling of pride
passed over the father's heart, as he noted this, amid a
scene that was well adapted to disturbing the equilibrium
of the firmest mind. Joel certainly betrayed nervousness,
though he kept close at his companion's side, and together
they proceeded into the very centre of the party of strangers.
The captain observed, also, that this arrival caused no
visible sensation among the red-men. Even those the major
almost touched in passing did not look up to note his appearance,
while no one seemed to speak, or in any manner
to heed him. The cooking and other preparations for the
breakfast proceeded precisely as if no one had entered the
camp. The two who had gone forth to meet the flag alone
attended its bearers, whom they led through the centre of
the entire party; stopping only on the side opposite to the
Hut, where there was an open space of flat rock, which it
had not suited the savages to occupy.
Here the four halted, the major turning and looking back
like a soldier who was examining his ground. Nor did any
one appear disposed to interrupt him in an employment
that serjeant Joyce pronounced to be both bold and against
the usages of war to permit. The captain thought the
stoicism of the savages amounted to exaggeration, and it
renewed his distrust of the real characters of his visiters.
In a minute or two, however, some three or four of the red-men
were seen consulting together apart, after which they
approached the bearers of the flag, and some communications
passed between the two sides. The nature of these
communications could not be known, of course, though the
conference appeared to be amicable. After two or three
minutes of conversation, Robert Willoughby, Strides, the
two men who had advanced to meet them, and the four
chiefs who had joined the group, left the summit of the
rock in company, taking a foot-path that descended in the
direction of the mills. In a short time they all disappeared
in a body.
The distance was not so great but these movements could
easily be seen by the naked eye, though the glass was necessary
to discover some of the details. Captain Willoughby
had planted the instrument among the palisades, and he kept
his gaze riveted on the retiring group as long as it was
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[figure description] Page 024.[end figure description]
visible; then, indeed, he looked at his companions, as if to read
their opinions in their countenances. Joyce understood the
expression of his face; and, saluting in the usual military
manner, he presumed to speak, in the way of reply.
“It seems all right, your honour, the bandage excepted,”
said the serjeant. “The flag has been met at the outposts,
and led into the camp; there the officer of the day, or some
savage who does the duty, has heard his errand; and, no
doubt, they have all now gone to head-quarters, to report.”
“I desired my son, Joyce—”
“Whom, your honour—?”
The general movement told the captain how completely
his auditors were taken by surprise, at this unlooked-for
announcement of the presence of the major at the Knoll. It
was too late to recall the words, however, and there was so
little prospect of Robert's escaping the penetration of Joel,
the father saw no use in attempting further concealment.
“I say I desired my son, major Willoughby, who is the
bearer of that flag,” the captain steadily resumed, “to raise
his hat in a particular manner, if all seemed right; or to
make a certain gesture with his left arm, did he see anything
that required us to be more than usually on our
guard.”
“And which notice has he given to the garrison, if it be
your honour's pleasure to let us know?”
“Neither. I thought he manifested an intention to make
the signal with the hat, when the chiefs first joined him; but
he hesitated, and lowered his hand without doing as I had
expected. Then, again, just as he disappeared behind the
rocks, the left arm was in motion, though not in a way to
complete the signal.”
“Did he seem hurried, your honour, as if prevented from
communicating by the enemy?”
“Not at all, Joyce. Irresolution appeared to be at the
bottom of it, so far as I could judge.”
“Pardon me, your honour; uncertainty would be a better
word, as applied to so good a soldier. Has major Willoughby
quitted the king's service, that he is among us, sir, just at
this moment?”
“I will tell you his errand another time, serjeant. At
present, I can think only of the risk he runs. These
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Indians are lawless wretches; one is never sure of their
faith.”
“They are bad enough, sir; but no man can well be so
bad as to disregard the rights of a flag,” answered the serjeant,
in a grave and slightly important manner. “Even
the French, your honour, have always respected our flags.”
“That is true; and, yet, I wish we could overlook that
position at the mill. It's a great advantage to them, Joyce,
that they can place themselves behind such a cover, when
they choose!”
The serjeant looked at the encampment a moment; then
his eye followed the woods, and the mountain sides, that
skirted the little plain, until his back was fairly turned upon
the supposed enemy, and he faced the forest in the rear of
the Hut.
“If it be agreeable to your honour, a detachment can be
detailed to make a demonstration”—Joyce did not exactly
understand this word, but it sounded military—“in the following
manner: I can lead out the party, by the rear of
the house, using the brook as a covered-way. Once in the
woods, it will be easy enough to make a flank movement
upon the enemy's position; after which, the detachment can
be guided by circumstances.”
This was very martial in sound, and the captain felt well
assured that Joyce was the man to attempt carrying out his
own plan; but he made no answer, sighing and shaking his
head, as he walked away towards the house. The chaplain
followed, leaving the rest to observe the savages.
“Ye're proposition, serjeant, no seems to give his honour
much saitisfaction,” said the mason, as soon as his superior
was out of hearing. “Still, it was military, as I know by
what I saw mysal' in the Forty-five. Flainking, and surprising,
and obsairving, and demonstrating, and such devices,
are the soul of war, and are a' on the great highway
to victory. Had Chairlie's men obsairved, and particularised
mair, there might have been a different family on the throne,
an' the prince wad ha' got his ain ag'in. I like your idea
much, serjaint, and gin' ye gang oot to practise it, I trust
ye'll no forget that ye've an auld fri'nd here, willing to be
of the pairty.”
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“I didn't think the captain much relished the notion of
being questioned about his son's feelin's, and visit up here,
at a time like this,” put in one of the Americans.
“There's bowels in the man's body!” cried Mike, “and
it isn't the likes of him that has no falin'. Ye don't know
what it is to be a father, or ye'd groan in spirit to see a
child of yer own in the grip of fiery divils like them same.
Isn't he a pratty man, and wouldn't I be sorrowful to hear
that he had come to har-r-m? Ye've niver asked, serjeant,
how the majjor got into the house, and ye a military sentry
in the bargain!”
“I suppose he came by command, Michael, and it is not
the duty of the non-commissioned officers to question their
superiors about anything that has happened out of the common
way. I take things as I find them, and obey orders.
I only hope that the son, as a field-officer, will not out-rank
the father, which would be unbecoming; though date of
commissions, and superiority, must be respected.”
“I rather think if a major in the king's service was to
undertake to use authority here,” said the spokesman of the
Americans, a little stiffly, “he wouldn't find many disposed
to follow at his heels.”
“Mutiny would not fare well, did it dare to lift its head
in this garrison”—answered the serjeant, with a dignity that
might better have suited the mess-room of a regular regiment,
than the situation in which he was actually placed. “Both
captain Willoughby and myself have seen mutiny attempted,
but neither has ever seen it succeed.”
“Do you look on us as lawful, enlisted soldiers?” demanded
one of the labourers, who had a sufficient smattering
of the law, to understand the difference between a mercenary
and a volunteer. “If I'm regimented, I should at least like
to know in whose service it is?”
“Ye're over-quick at yer objections and sentiments,”
said Jamie Allen, coolly, “like most youths, who see only
their ain experience in the airth, and the providence o' the
Lord. Enlisted we are, a' of us, even to Michael here, and
it's in the sairvice of our good master, his honour captain
Willoughby; whom, with his kith and kin, may the Lord
presairve from this and all other dangers.”
The word master would, of itself, be very likely to create
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a revolt to-day, in such a corps as it was the fortune of our
captain to command, though to that of “boss” there would
not be raised the slightest objection. But the English language
had not undergone half of its present mutations in
the year 1776; and no one winced in admitting that he
served a “master,” though the gorges of several rose at the
idea of being engaged in the service of any one, considered
in a military point of view. It is likely the suggestion of
the mason would have led to a hot discussion, had not a stir
among the savages, just at that instant, called off the attention
of all present, to matters of more importance than even
an angry argument.
The movement seemed to be general, and Joyce ordered
his men to stand to their arms; still he hesitated about
giving the alarm. Instead of advancing towards the Hut,
however, the Indians raised a general yell, and went over
the cliffs, disappearing in the direction of the mill, like a
flock of birds taking wing together. After waiting half an
hour, in vain, to ascertain if any signs of the return of the
Indians were to be seen, the serjeant went himself to report
the state of things to his commander.
Captain Willoughby had withdrawn to make his toilet for
the day, when he saw the last of his son and the overseer.
While thus employed he had communicated to his wife all
that had occurred; and Mrs. Willoughby, in her turn, had
told the same to her daughters. Maud was much the most
distressed, her suspicions of Joel being by far the most active
and the most serious. From the instant she learned what
had passed, she began to anticipate grave consequences to
Robert Willoughby, though she had sufficient fortitude, and
sufficient consideration for others, to keep most of her apprehensions
to herself.
When Joyce demanded his audience, the family was at
breakfast, though little was eaten, and less was said. The
serjeant was admitted, and he told his story with military
precision.
“This has a suspicious air, Joyce,” observed the captain,
after musing a little; “to me it seems like an attempt to induce
us to follow, and to draw us into an ambuscade.”
“It may be that, your honour; or, it may be a good honest
retreat. Two prisoners is a considerable exploit for
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savages to achieve. I have known them count one a victory.”
“Be not uneasy, Wilhelmina; Bob's rank will secure
him good treatment, his exchange being far more important
to his captors, if captors they be, than his death. It is too
soon to decide on such a point, serjeant. After all, the Indians
may be at the mills, in council. On a war-path, all
the young men are usually consulted, before any important
step is taken. Then, it may be the wish of the chiefs to
impress our flag-bearers with an idea of their force.”
“All that is military, your honour, and quite possible.
Still, to me the movement seems as if a retreat was intended,
in fact, or that the appearance of one was in view.”
“I will soon know the truth,” cried the chaplain. “I, a
man of peace, can surely go forth, and ascertain who these
people are, and what is their object.”
“You, Woods! My dear fellow, do you imagine a tribe
of blood-thirsty savages will respect you, or your sacred
office? You have a sufficient task with the king's forces,
letting his enemies alone. You are no missionary to still a
war-cry.”
“I beg pardon, sir”—put in the serjeant—“his reverence
is more than half right”—here the chaplain rose, and quitted
the room in haste, unobserved by the two colloquists—
“There is scarce a tribe in the colony, your honour, that
has not some knowledge of our priesthood; and I know of
no instance in which the savages have ever ill-treated a
divine.”
“Poh, poh, Joyce; this is much too sentimental for your
Mohawks, and Oneidas, and Onondagas, and Tuscaroras.
They will care no more for little Woods than they care for
the great woods through which they journey on their infernal
errands.”
“One cannot know, Hugh”—observed the anxious mother—
“Our dear Robert is in their hands; and, should Mr.
Woods be really disposed to go on this mission of mercy,
does it comport with our duty as parents to oppose it?”
“A mother is all mother”—murmured the captain, who
rose from table, kissed his wife's cheek affectionately, and
left the room, beckoning to the serjeant to follow.
Captain Willoughby had not been gone many minutes,
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when the chaplain made his appearance, attired in his surplice,
and wearing his best wig; an applicance that all elderly
gentlemen in that day fancied necessary to the dignity and
gravity of their appearance. Mrs. Willoughby, to own the
truth, was delighted. If this excellent woman was ever
unjust, it was in behalf of her children; solicitude for whom
sometimes induced her to overlook the rigid construction of
the laws of equality.
“We will see which best understands the influence of the
sacred office, captain Willoughby, or myself;” observed the
chaplain, with a little more importance of manner than it
was usual for one so simple to assume. “I do not believe
the ministry was instituted to be brow-beaten by tribes of
savages, any more than it is to be silenced by the unbeliever,
or schismatic.”
It was very evident that the Rev. Mr. Woods was considerably
excited; and this was a condition of mind so unusual
with him, as to create a species of awe in the observers. As
for the two young women, deeply as they were interested
in the result, and keenly as Maud, in particular, felt everything
which touched the fortunes of Robert Willoughby,
neither would presume to interfere, when they saw one
whom they had been taught to reverence from childhood,
acting in a way that so little conformed to his ordinary
manner. As for Mrs. Willoughby, her own feelings were
so much awakened, that never had Mr. Woods seemed so
evangelical and like a saint, as at that very moment; and
it would not have been difficult to persuade her that he was
acting under something very like righteous superhuman impulses.
Such, however, was far from being the case. The worthy
priest had an exalted idea of his office; and, to fancy it
might favorably impress even savages, was little more than
carrying out his every-day notions of its authority. He conscientiously
believed that he, himself, a regularly ordained
presbyter, would be more likely to succeed in the undertaking
before him, than a mere deacon; were a bishop present,
he would cheerfully have submitted to his superior
claims to sanctity and success. As for arch-bishops, archdeacons,
deans, rural deans, and all the other worldly machinery
which has been superadded to the church, the truth
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compels us to add, that our divine felt no especial reverence,
since he considered them as so much clerical surplusage,
of very questionable authority, and of doubtful use. He
adhered strictly to the orders of divine institution; to these
he attached so much weight, as to be entirely willing, in
his own person, to demonstrate how little was to be apprehended,
when their power was put forth, even against Indians,
in humility and faith.
“I shall take this sprig of laurel in my hand, in lieu of
the olive-branch,” said the excited chaplain, “as the symbol
of peace. It is not probable that savages can tell one plant
from the other; and if they could, it will be easy to explain
that olives do not grow in America. It is an eastern tree,
ladies, and furnishes the pleasant oil we use on our salads.
I carry with me, notwithstanding, the oil which proves a
balm to many sorrows; that will be sufficient.”
“You will bid them let Robert return to us, without delay?”
said Mrs. Willoughby, earnestly.
“I shall bid them respect God and their consciences. I
cannot now stop to rehearse to you the mode of proceeding
I shall adopt; but it is all arranged in my own mind. It
will be necessary to call the Deity the `Great Spirit' or
`Manitou'—and to use many poetical images; but this can
I do, on an emergency. Extempore preaching is far from
agreeable to me, in general; nor do I look upon it, in this
age of the world, as exactly canonical; nevertheless, it shall
be seen I know how to submit even to that, when there is a
suitable necessity.”
It was so seldom Mr. Woods used such magnificent ideas,
or assumed a manner in the least distinguishable from one
of the utmost simplicity, that his listeners now felt really
awed; and when he turned to bless them, as he did with
solemnity and affection, the two daughters knelt to receive
his benedictions. These delivered, he walked out of the
room, crossed the court, and proceeded straightway to the
outer gate.
It was, perhaps, fortunate to the design of the Rev. Mr.
Woods, that neither the captain nor the serjeant was in the
way, to arrest it. This the former would certainly have
done, out of regard to his friend, and the last out of regard
to “orders.” But these military personages were in the
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library, in deep consultation concerning the next step necessary
to take. This left the coast clear, no one belonging to
the guard conceiving himself of sufficient authority to stop
the chaplain, more especially when he appeared in his wig
and surplice. Jamie Allen was a corporal, by courtesy;
and, at the first summons, he caused the outer gate to be
unlocked and unbarred, permitting the chaplain to make
his egress, attended by his own respectful bows. This Jamie
did, out of reverence to religion, generally; though the surplice
ever excited his disgust; and, as for the Liturgy, he
deemed it to be a species of solemn mockery of worship.
The captain did not reappear outside of the court, until
the chaplain, who had made the best of his way towards the
rocks, was actually stalking like a ghost among ruins,
through the deserted shantees of the late encampment.
“What in the name of Indian artifice is the white animal
that I see moving about on the rocks?” demanded the captain,
whose look was first turned in the direction of the
camp.
“It seems an Indian wrapped up in a shirt, your honour—
as I live, sir, it has a cocked hat on its head!”
“Na — na” — interrupted Jamie, “ye'll no be guessing
the truth this time, without the aid of a little profane revelation.
The chiel ye see yan, yer honour, is just chaplain
Woods.”
“Woods—the devil!”
“Na — na — yer honour, it's the reverend gentleman,
hissel', and no the de'il, at a'. He's in his white frock —
though why he didn't wear his black gairment is more than
I can tell ye—but there he is, walking about amang the Indian
dwellings, all the same as if they were so many pews
in his ain kirk.”
“And, how came you to let him pass the gate, against
orders?”
“Well, and it is aboot the orders of the priesthood, that
he so often preaches, and seeing him in the white gairment,
and knowing ye've so many fast-days, and Christmas', in
the kirk o' England, I fancied it might be a bit matter o'
prayer he wished to offer up, yan, in the house on the flat;
and so I e'en thought church prayers better than no prayers
at all, in such a strait.”
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As it was useless to complain, the captain was fain to
submit, even beginning to hope some good might come of
the adventure, when he saw Mr. Woods walking unmolested
through the deserted camp. The glass was levelled, and
the result was watched in intense interest.
The chaplain first explored every shantee, fearlessly and
with diligence. Then he descended the rocks, and was lost
to view, like those who had preceded him. A feverish hour
passed, without any symptom of human life appearing in
the direction of the mills. Sometimes those who watched,
fancied they beheld a smoke beginning to steal up over the
brow of the rocks, the precursor of the expected conflagration;
but a few moments dispersed the apprehension and
the fancied smoke together. The day advanced, and yet
the genius of solitude reigned over the mysterious glen.
Not a sound emerged from it, not a human form was seen
near it, not a sign of a hostile assault or of a friendly return
could be detected. All in that direction lay buried in silence,
as if the ravine had swallowed its tenants, in imitation of
the grave.
CHAPTER III.
To deck my list by Nature were design'd
Such shining expletives of human kind;
Who want, while through blank life they dream along,
Sense to be right, and passion to be wrong.
Young.
The disappearance of Mr. Woods occasioned no uneasiness
at first. An hour elapsed before the captain thought it
necessary to relate the occurrence to his family, when a
general panic prevailed among the females. Even Maud
had hoped the savages would respect the sacred character
of the divine, though she knew not why; and here was one
of her principal grounds of hope, as connected with Robert
Willoughby, slid from beneath her feet.
“What can we do, Willoughby?” asked the affectionate
mother, almost reduced to despair. “I will go myself, in
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search of my son—they will respect me, a woman and a
mother.”
“You little know the enemy we have to deal with, Wilhelmina,
or so rash a thought could not have crossed your
mind. We will not be precipitate; a few hours may bring
some change to direct us. One thing I learn from Woods'
delay. The Indians cannot be far off, and he must be with
them, or in their hands; else would he return after having
visited the mills and the houses beneath the cliffs.”
This sounded probable, and all felt there was a relief in
fancying that their friends were still near them, and were
not traversing the wilderness as captives.
“I feel less apprehension than any of you,” observed
Beulah, in her placid manner. “If Bob is in the hands of
an American party, the brother-in-law of Evert Beekman
cannot come to much harm; with British Indians he will
be respected for his own sake, as soon as he can make himself
known.”
“I have thought of all this, my child” — answered the
father, musing—“and there is reason in it. It will be difficult,
however, for Bob to make his real character certain,
in his present circumstances. He does not appear the man
he is; and should there even be a white among his captors
who can read, he has not a paper with him to sustain his
word.”
“But, he promised me faithfully to use Evert's name,
did he ever fall into American hands” — resumed Beulah,
earnestly—“and Evert has said, again and again, that my
brother could never be his enemy.”
“Heaven help us all, dear child!” answered the captain,
kissing his daughter — “It is, indeed, a cruel war, when
such aids are to be called in for our protection. We will
endeavour to be cheerful, notwithstanding; for we know of
nothing yet, that ought to alarm us, out of reason; all may
come right before the sun set.”
The captain looked at his family, and endeavoured to
smile, but he met no answering gleam of happiness on either
face; nor was his own effort very successful. As for his
wife, she was never known to be aught but miserable, while
any she loved were in doubtful safety. She lived entirely
out of herself, and altogether for her husband, children, and
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friends; a woman less selfish, or one more devoted to the
affections, never existing. Then Beulah, with all her reliance
on the magic of Evert's name, and with the deep feelings
that had been awakened within her, as a wife and a
mother, still loved her brother as tenderly as ever. As for
Maud, the agony she endured was increased by her efforts
to keep it from breaking out in some paroxysm that might
betray her secret; and her features were getting an expression
of stern resolution, which, blended with her beauty,
gave them a grandeur her father had never before seen in
her bright countenance.
“This child suffers on Bob's account more than any of
us” — observed the captain, drawing his pet towards him,
placing her kindly on his knee, and folding her to his
bosom. “She has no husband yet, to divide her heart; all
her love centres in her brother.”
The look which Beulah cast upon her father was not reproachful,
for that was an expression she would not have
indulged with him; but it was one in which pain and mortification
were so obvious, as to induce the mother to receive
her into her own arms.
“Hugh, you are unjust to Beulah” — said the anxious
mother—“Nothing can ever cause this dear girl, either, to
forget to feel for any of us.”
The captain's ready explanation, and affectionate kiss,
brought a smile again to Beulah's face, though it shone amid
tears. All was, however, immediately forgotten; for the
parties understood each other, and Maud profited by the
scene to escape from the room. This flight broke up the
conference; and the captain, after exhorting his wife and
daughter to set an example of fortitude to the rest of the
females, left the house, to look after his duties among the
men.
The absence of Joel cast a shade of doubt over the minds
of the disaffected. These last were comparatively numerous,
comprising most of the native Americans in the Hut, the
blacks and Joyce excepted. Strides had been enabled to
effect his purposes more easily with his own countrymen,
by working on their good qualities, as well as on their bad.
Many of these men — most of them, indeed — meant well;
but their attachment to the cause of their native land laid
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them open to assaults, against which Mike and Jamie Allen
were insensible. Captain Willoughby was an Englishman,
in the first place; he was an old army-officer, in the next;
and he had an only son who was confessedly in open arms
against the independence of America. It is easy to see how
a demagogue like Joel, who had free access to the ears of
his comrades, could improve circumstance like these to his
own particular objects. Nevertheless, he had difficulties to
contend with. If it were true that parson Woods still insisted
on praying for the king, it was known that the captain
laughed at him for his reverence for Cæsar; if Robert Willoughby
were a major in the royal forces, Evert Beekman
was a colonel in the continentals; if the owner of the manor
were born in England, his wife and children were born in
America; and he, himself, was often heard to express his
convictions of the justice of most of that for which the provincials
were contending — all, the worthy captain had not
yet made up his mind to concede to them.
Then, most of the Americans in the Hut entertained none
of the selfish and narrow views of Joel and the miller. Their
wish was to do right, in the main; and though obnoxious to
the charge of entertaining certain prejudices that rendered
them peculiarly liable to become the dupes of a demagogue,
they submitted to many of the better impulses, and were
indisposed to be guilty of any act of downright injustice.
The perfect integrity with which they had ever been treated,
too, had its influence; nor was the habitual kindness of Mrs.
Willoughby to their wives and children forgotten; nor the
gentleness of Beulah, or the beauty, spirit, and generous
impulses of Maud. In a word, the captain, when he went
forth to review his men, who were now all assembled under
arms within the palisades for that purpose, went to meet a
wavering, rather than a positively disaffected or rebellious
body.
“Attention!” cried Joyce, as his commanding officer
came in front of a line which contained men of different
colours, statures, ages, dresses, countries, habits and physiognomies,
making it a sort of epitome of the population of
the whole colony, as it existed in that day — “Attention!
Present, arms.”
The captain pulled off his hat complacently, in return to
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this salute, though he was obliged to smile at the array
which met his eyes. Every one of the Dutchmen had got
his musket to an order, following a sort of fugleman of their
own; while Mike had invented a “motion” that would have
puzzled any one but himself to account for. The butt of
the piece was projected towards the captain, quite out of
line, while the barrel rested on his own shoulder. Still, as
his arms were extended to the utmost, the county Leitrim-man
fancied he was performing much better than common.
Jamie had correct notions of the perpendicular, from having
used the plumb-bob so much, though even he made the
trifling mistake of presenting arms with the lock outwards.
As for the Yankees, they were all tolerably exact, in everything
but time, and the line; bringing their pieces down, one
after another, much as they were in the practice of following
their leaders, in matters of opinion. The negroes defied
description; nor was it surprising they failed, each of them
thrusting his head forward to see how the “motions” looked,
in a way that prevented any particular attention to his
own part of the duty. The serjeant had the good sense to
see that his drill had not yet produced perfection, and he
brought his men to a shoulder again, as soon as possible.
In this he succeeded perfectly, with the exception that just
half of the arms were brought to the right, and the other
half to the left shoulders.
“We shall do better, your honour, as we get a little more
drill”—said Joyce, with an apologetic salute—“Corporal
Strides has a tolerable idea of the manual, and he usually
acts as our fugleman. When he gets back, we shall improve.”
“When he gets back, serjeant — can you, or any other
man, tell when that will be?”
“Yes, yer honour,” sputtered Mike, with the eagerness
of a boy. “I'se the man to tell yees that same.”
“You? — What can you know, that is not known to all
of us, my good Michael?”
“I knows what I sees; and if you isn't Misther Strhides,
then I am not acquainted with his sthraddle.”
Sure enough, Joel appeared at the gate, as Mike concluded
his assertions. How he got there, no one knew; for a good
look-out had been kept in the direction of the mill; and, yet,
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here was the overseer applying for admission, as if he had
fallen from the clouds! Of course, the application was not
denied, though made in a manner so unexpected, and Joel
stood in front of his old comrades at the hoe and plough,
if not in arms, in less than a minute. His return was proclaimed
through the house in an incredibly short space of
time, by the aid of the children, and all the females came
pouring out from the court to learn the tidings, led by Mrs.
Strides and her young brood.
“Have you anything to communicate to me in private,
Strides?” the captain demanded, maintaining an appearance
of sang froid that he was far from feeling — “or, can your
report be made here, before the whole settlement?”
“It's just as the captain pleases,” answered the wily demagogue;
“though, to my notion, the people have a right
to know all, in an affair that touches the common interest.”
“Attention! men” — cried the serjeant — “By platoons,
to the right—”
“No matter, Joyce,” interrupted the captain, waving his
hand—“Let the men remain. You have held communications
with our visiters, I know, Strides?”
“We have, captain Willoughby, and a desperate sort of
visiters be they! A more ugly set of Mohawks and Onondagas
I never laid eyes on.”
“As for their appearance, it is matter of indifference to
me—what is the object of their visit?”
“I mean ugly behaved, and they deserve all I say of'em.
Their ar'nd, according to their own tell, is to seize the
captain, and his family, in behalf of the colonies.”
As Joel uttered this, he cast a glance along the line of
faces paraded before him, in order to read the effect it might
produce. That it was not lost on some, was as evident as
that it was on others. The captain, however, appeared unmoved,
and there was a slight air of incredulity in the smile
that curled his lip.
“This, then, you report as being the business of the party,
in coming to this place!” he said, quietly.
“I do, sir; and an ugly ar'nd it is, in times like these.”
“Is there any person in authority in a party that pretends
to move about the colony, with such high duties?”
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“There's one or two white men among 'em, if that's
what the captain means; they pretend to be duly authorised
and app'inted to act in behalf of the people.”
At each allusion to the people, Joel invariably looked towards
his particular partisans, in order to note the effect the
use of the word might produce. On the present occasion,
he even ventured to wink at the miller.
“If acting on authority, why do they keep aloof?—I have
no such character for resisting the laws, that any who come
clothed with its mantle need fear resistance.”
“Why, I s'pose they reason in some such manner as this.
There's two laws in operation at this time; the king's law,
and the people's law. I take it, this party comes in virtue
of the people's law, whereas it is likely the law the captain
means is the king's law. The difference is so great, that
one or t'other carries the day, just as the king's friends or
the people's friends happen to be the strongest. These men
don't like to trust to their law, when the captain may think
it safest to trust a little to his'n.”
“And all this was told you, Strides, in order to be repeated
to me?”
“Not a word on't; it's all my own consait about the
matter. Little passed between us.”
“And, now,” said the captain, relieving his breast by a
long sigh, “I presume I may inquire about your companion.
You probably have ascertained who he is?”
“Lord, captain Willoughby, I was altogether dumbfounded,
when the truth came upon me of a sudden! I
never should have known the major in that dress, in the
world, or out of the world either; but he walks so like the
captain, that as I followed a'ter him, I said to myself, who
can it be? — and then the walk came over me, as it might
be; and then I remembered last night, and the stranger that
was out with the captain, and how he occupied the room
next to the library, and them things; and so, when I come
to look in his face, there was the major sure enough!”
Joel lied famously in this account; but he believed himself
safe, as no one could very well contradict him.
“Now, you have explained the manner in which you recognised
my son, Strides,” added the captain, “I will thank
you to let me know what has become of him?”
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“He's with the savages. Having come so far to seize
the father, it wasn't in natur' to let the son go free, when
he walked right into the lion's den, like.”
“And how could the savages know he was my son? Did
they, too, recognise the family walk?”
Strides was taken aback at this question, and he even had
the grace to colour a little. He saw that he was critically
placed; for, in addition to the suggestions of conscience, he
understood the captain sufficiently to know he was a man
who would not trifle, in the event of his suspicions becoming
active. He knew he deserved the gallows, and Joyce was
a man who would execute him in an instant, did his commander
order it. The idea fairly made the traitor tremble
in his shoes.
“Ah! I've got a little ahead of my story,” he said,
hastily. “But, perhaps I had best tell everything as it
happened—”
“That will be the simplest and clearest course. In order
that there be no interruption, we will go into my room,
where Joyce will follow us, as soon as he has dismissed his
men.”
This was done, and in a minute or two the captain and
Joel were seated in the library, Joyce respectfully standing;
the old soldier always declining to assume any familiarity
with his superior. We shall give the substance of most of
Joel's report in our own language; preferring it, defective
as it is, to that of the overseer's, which was no bad representative
of his cunning, treacherous and low mind.
It seems, then, that the bearers of the flag were amicably
received by the Indians. The men towards whom they were
led on the rocks, were the chiefs of the party, who treated
them with proper respect. The sudden movement was explained
to them, as connected with their meal; and the chiefs,
accompanied by the major and Strides, proceeded to the
house of the miller. Here, by means of a white man for
an interpreter, the major had demanded the motive of the
strangers in coming into the settlement. The answer was
a frank demand for the surrender of the Hut, and all it contained,
to the authorities of the continental congress. The
major had endeavoured to persuade a white man, who professed
to hold the legal authority for what was doing, of the
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perfectly neutral disposition of his father, when, according
to Joel's account, to his own great astonishment, the argument
was met by the announcement of Robert Willoughby's
true character, and a sneering demand if it were likely
man who had a son in the royal army, and who had kept
that son secreted in his own house, would be very indifferent
to the success of the royal cause.
“They've got a wonderful smart man there for a magistrate,
I can tell you,” added Joel, with emphasis, “and he
ra'ally bore as hard on the major as a lawyer before a court.
How he found out that the major was at the Hut is a little
strange, seein' that none of us know'd of it; but they've got
extraor'nary means, now-a-days.”
“And, did major Willoughby admit his true character,
when charged with being in the king's service?”
“He did—and like a gentleman. He only insisted that
his sole ar'nd out here was to see his folks, and that he intended
to go back to York the moment he had paid his
visit.”
“How did the person you mention receive his explanations?”
“Waal, to own the truth, he laugh'd at it, like all natur'.
I don't believe they put any great weight on a syllable the
major told 'em. I never see critturs with such onbelievin'
faces! After talking as long as suited themselves, they ordered
the major to be shut up in a buttery, with a warrior
at the door for a sentinel; a'ter which they took to examining
me.”
Joel then proceeded with an account — his own account,
always, be it remembered—of what passed between himself
and the strangers. They had questioned him closely touching
the nature of the defences of the Hut, the strength of the
garrison, its disposition, the number and quality of the arms,
and the amount of the ammunition.
“You may depend on't, I gave a good account,” continued
the overseer, in a self-satisfied way. “In the first
place, I told'em, the captain had a lieutenant with him that
had sarved out the whull French war; then I put the men
up to fifty at once, seein' it was just as easy to say that, as
thirty or thirty-three. As to the arms, I told'em more than
half the pieces were double-barrelled; and that the captain,
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in particular, carried a rifle that had killed nine savages in
one fight.”
“You were much mistaken in that, Joel. It is true, that
celebrated chief once fell by this rifle; even that is not a
matter for boasting.”
“Waal, them that told me on't, said that two had fallen
before it, and I put it up to nine at once, to make a good
story better. Nine men had a more desperate sound than
two; and when you do begin to brag, a man shouldn't be
backward. I thought, howsever, that they was most nonplussed,
when I told'em of the field-piece.”
“The field-piece, Strides!—Why did you venture on an
exaggeration that any forward movement of theirs must
expose?”
“We'll see to that, captain — we'll see to that. Field-pieces
are desperate dampers to Indian courage, so I thought
I'd just let'em have a six-pounder, by way of tryin' their
natur's. They look'd like men goin' to execution, when I
told'em of the cannon, and what a history it had gone
through.”
“And what may have been this history, pray?”
“I just told'em it was the very gun the captain had took
from the French, about which we've all heern tell; and
that, as everybody knows, was a desperate piece, havin'
killed more than a hundred reg'lars, before the captain
charged baggonet on it, and carried it off.”
This was a very artful speech, since it alluded to the most
distinguished exploit of captain Willoughby's military life;
one of which it would have been more than human, had he
not been a little proud. All who knew him, had heard of
this adventure, and Joel cunningly turned it to account, in
the manner seen. The allusion served to put to sleep, for
the moment at least, certain very unpleasant suspicions that
were getting to be active in his superior's mind.
“There was no necessity, Strides, for saying anything
about that affair”—the captain, modestly, interposed. “It
happened a long time since, and might well be forgotten.
Then, you know we have no gun to support your account;
when our deficiency is ascertained, it will all be set down
to the true cause—a wish to conceal our real weakness.”
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“I beg your honour's pardon,” put in Joyce—“I think
Strides has acted in a military manner in this affair. It is
according to the art of war for the besieged to pretend to be
stronger than they are; and even besiegers sometimes put a
better face than the truth will warrant, on their strength.
Military accounts, as your honour well knows, never pass
exactly for gospel, unless it be with the raw hands.”
“Then,” added Joel, “I know'd what I was about, seein'
that we had a cannon ready for use, as soon as it could be
mounted.”
“I think I understand Strides, your honour,” resumed
the serjeant. “I have carved a `quaker,' as an ornament
for the gateway, intending to saw it in two, in the middle,
and place the pieces, crosswise, over the entrance, as your
honour has often seen such things in garrisons — like the
brass ornaments on the artillery caps, I mean, your honour.
Well, this gun is finished and painted, and I intended to split
it, and have it up this very week. I suppose Joel has had
it in his mind, quaker fashion.”
“The serjeant's right. That piece looks as much like a
real cannon as one of our cathechisms is like another. The
muzzle is more than a foot deep, and has a plaguy gunpowder
look!”
“But this gun is not mounted; even if it were, it could
only be set up for show,” observed the captain.
“Put that cannon up once, and I'll answer for it that no
Injin faces it. 'Twill be as good as a dozen sentinels,” answered
Joel. “As for mountin', I thought of that before I
said a syllable about the crittur. There's the new truck-wheels
in the court, all ready to hold it, and the carpenters
can put the hinder part to the whull, in an hour or two, and
that in a way no Injin could tell the difference between it
and a ra'al cannon, at ten yards.”
“This is plausible, your honour,” said Joyce, respectfully,
“and it shows that corporal Strides”—Joel insisted he
was a serjeant, but the real Simon Pure never gave him a
title higher than that of corporal—“and it shows that corporal
Strides has an idea of war. By mounting that piece,
and using it with discretion — refusing it, at the right moment,
and showing it at another — a great deal might be
done with it, either in a siege or an assault. If your honour
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will excuse the liberty, I would respectfully suggest that it
might be well to set the quaker on his legs, and plant him
at the gate, as an exhorter.”
The captain reflected a moment, and then desired the
overseer to proceed in his account. The rest of Joel's story
was soon told. He had mystified the strangers, according
to his own account of the matter, so thoroughly, by affecting
to withhold nothing, that they considered him as a sort
of ally, and did not put him in confinement at all. It is
true, he was placed en surveillance; but the duty was so
carelessly performed, that, at the right moment, he had
passed down the ravine, a direction in which a movement
was not expected, and buried himself in the woods, so very
effectually that it would have baffled pursuit, had any been
attempted. After making a very long détour, that consumed
hours, he turned the entire valley, and actually reached the
Hut, under the cover of the rivulet and its bushes, or precisely
by the route in which he and Mike had gone forth, in
quest of Maud, the evening of the major's arrival. This
latter fact, however, Joel had reasons of his own for concealing.
“You have told us nothing of Mr. Woods, Strides,” the
captain observed, when Joel's account was ended.
“Mr. Woods! I can tell the captain nothing of that gentleman;
I supposed he was here.”
The manner in which the chaplain had left the Hut, and
his disappearance in the ravine, were then explained to the
overseer, who evidently had quitted the mill, on his return,
before the divine performed his exploit. There was a
sinister expression in Joel's eyes, as he heard the account,
that might have given the alarm to men more suspicious
than the two old soldiers; but he had the address to conceal
all he felt or thought.
“If Mr. Woods has gone into the hands of the Injins, in
his church shirt,” rejoined the overseer, “his case is hopeless,
so far as captivity is consarned. One of the charges
ag'in the captain is, that the chaplain he keeps prays as
regulairly for the king as he used to do when it was lawful,
and agreeable to public feelin'.”
“This you heard, while under examination before the
magistrate you have named?” demanded the captain.
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“As good as that, and something more to the same p'int.
The 'squire complained awfully of a minister's prayin' for
the king and r'yal family, when the country was fightin'
'em.”
“In that, the Rev. Mr. Woods only obeys orders,” said
the serjeant.
“But they say not. The orders is gone out, now, they
pretend, for no man to pray for any on'em.”
“Ay — orders from the magistrates, perhaps. But the
Rev. Mr. Woods is a divine, and has his own superiors in
the church, and they must issue the commands that he obeys.
I dare to say, your honour, if the archbishop of Canterbury,
or the commander-in-chief of the church, whoever he may
be, should issue a general order directing all the parsons
not to pray for King George, the Rev. Mr. Woods would
have no scruple about obeying. But, it's a different thing
when a justice of the peace undertakes to stand fugleman
for the clergy. It's like a navy captain undertaking to
wheel a regiment.”
“Poor Woods!” exclaimed the captain — “Had he been
ruled by me, he would have dropped those prayers, and it
would have been better for us both. But, he is of your
opinion, serjeant, and thinks that a layman can have no
authority over a gownsman.”
“And isn't he right, your honour! Think what a mess
of it the militia officers make, when they undertake to meddle
with a regular corps. Some of our greatest difficulties
in the last war came from such awkward hands attempting
to manage machines of which they had no just notions. As
for praying, your honour, I'm no wise particular who I pray
for, or what I pray for, so long as it be all set down in general
orders that come from the right head-quarters; and I
think the Rev. Mr. Woods ought to be judged by the same
rule.”
As the captain saw no use in prolonging the dialogue, he
dismissed his companions. He then sought his wife, in
order to make her acquainted with the actual state of things.
This last was a painful duty, though Mrs. Willoughby and
her daughters heard the truth with less of apprehension
than the husband and father had anticipated. They had
suffered so much from uncertainty, that there was a relief
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in learning the truth. The mother did not think the authorities
of the colony would hurt her son, whom she fancied
all men must, in a degree, love as she loved. Beulah thought
of her own husband as Bob's safeguard; while Maud felt it
to be comparative happiness to know he was unharmed, and
still so near her.
This unpleasant duty discharged, the captain began to
bethink him seriously of his military trust. After some
reflection, and listening to a few more suggestions from
Joyce, he consented to let the “quaker” be put on wheels.
The carpenters were immediately set at work to achieve
this job, which the serjeant volunteered to superintend, in
person. As for Joel, his wife and children, with the miller,
occupied most of the morning; the day turning, and
even drawing towards its close, ere he became visible,
as had formerly been his wont, among the men of the settlement.
All this time, everything without the palisades lay in the
silence of nature. The sun cast its glories athwart the lovely
scene, as in one of the Sabbaths of the woods; but man
was nowhere visible. Not a hostile Indian, or white, exhibited
himself; and the captain began to suspect that, satisfied
with their captures, the party had commenced its return
towards the river, postponing his own arrest for some other
occasion. So strong did this impression become towards
the close of the day, that he was actually engaged in writing
to some friends of influence in Albany and on the Mohawk
to interpose their names and characters in his son's behalf,
when the serjeant, about nine o'clock, the hour when he had
been ordered to parade the guard for the first half of the
night, presented himself at the door of his room, to make
an important report.
“What now, Joyce?” demanded the captain. “Are any
of our fellows sleepy, and plead illness?”
“Worse than that, your honour, I greatly fear,” was the
answer. Of the ten men your honour commanded me to
detail for the guard, five are missing. I set them down as
deserters.”
“Deserters! — This is serious, indeed; let the signal be
made for a general parade — the people cannot yet have
gone to bed; we will look into this.”
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As Joyce made it matter of religion “to obey orders,”
this command was immediately put in execution. In five
minutes, a messenger came to summon the captain to the
court, where the garrison was under arms. The serjeant
stood in front of the little party, with a lantern, holding his
muster-roll in his hand. The first glance told the captain
that a serious reduction had taken place in his forces, and
he led the serjeant aside to hear his report.
“What is the result of your inquiries, Joyce?” he demanded,
with more uneasiness than he would have liked to
betray openly.
“We have lost just half our men, sir. The miller, most
of the Yankees, and two of the Dutchmen, are not on parade;
neither is one of them to be found in his quarters.
They have either gone over to the enemy, captain Willoughby,
or, disliking the appearance of things here, they have
taken to the woods for safety.”
“And abandoned their wives and children, serjeant! Men
would scarcely do that.”
“Their wives and children have deserted too, sir. Not a
chick or child belonging to either of the runaways is to be
found in the Hut.”
CHAPTER IV.
“For all the Welshmen, hearing thou wert dead,
Are gone to Bolingbroke, dispersed and fled.”
Richard III.
This was startling intelligence to receive just as night
had shut in, and under the other circumstances of the case.
Touching the men who still remained, captain Willoughby
conceived it prudent to inquire into their characters and
names, in order to ascertain the ground he stood on, and to
govern his future course accordingly. He put the question
to the serjeant, therefore, as soon as he could lead him far
enough from the little array, to be certain he was out of
ear-shot.
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“We have Michael O'Hearn, Jamie Allen, the two carpenters,
the three niggers, Joel, and the three Dutchmen
that last came into the settlement, and the two lads that
Strides engaged at the beginning of the year, left,” was the
answer. “These, counting your honour and myself, make
just fifteen men; quite enough yet, I should think, to
make good the house, in case of an assault — though I fear
everything like an outwork must be abandoned.”
“On the whole, these are the best of our men,” returned
the captain; “I mean the most trustworthy. I count on
Mike, Jamie, and the blacks, as being as much to be relied
on as we are ourselves. Joel, too, is a man of resources,
if he will but do his duty under fire.”
“Corporal Strides is still an untried soldier, your honour;
though recruits, even, sometimes do wonders. Of course, I
shall reduce the guard to half its former strength, as the
men must have some sleep, sir.”
“We must depend very much on your vigilance and
mine, to-night, Joyce. You shall take the guard till one,
when I will stand it for the rest of the night. I will speak
to the men before you dismiss them. An encouraging word,
just now, may be worth a platoon to us.”
The serjeant seldom dissented from any suggestion of his
commanding officer, and the scheme was carried out on the
spot. The lantern was so placed as to permit the captain to
see the heterogeneous row of countenances that was drawn
up before him, and he proceeded:
“It seems, my friends,” he said, “that some of our people
have been seized with a panic, and have deserted. These
mistaken men have not only fled themselves, but they have
induced their wives and children to follow them. A little
reflection will show you to what distress all must be reduced
by this ill-judged flight. Fifty miles from another settlement
of any size, and more than thirty from even a single hut,
beyond the cabin of a hunter, days must pass before they
can reach a place of safety, even should they escape the
savage foe that we know to be scouring the woods. The
women and children will not have sufficient art to conceal
their trail, nor sufficient strength to hold out against hunger
and fatigue many hours. God forgive them for what they
have done, and guide them through the difficulties and pains
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by which they are menaced! As for us, we must determine
to do our whole duty, or, at once to retire, with the consent
of each other. If there is a man among you, then, who
apprehends the consequences of standing to his arms, and
of defending this house, let him confess it frankly; he shall
have leave to depart, with all that belongs to him, taking
food and the means of subsistence and defence with him. I
wish no man to remain with me and mine, but he who can
do it cheerfully. The night is now dark, and, by quitting
the Hut at an early hour, such a start might be gained over
any pursuers, as to place him in comparative security before
morning. If any such man is here, let him now speak out
honestly, and fear nothing. The gate shall be opened for
his march.”
The captain paused, but not a soul answered. A common
sentiment of loyalty seemed to bind every one of the listeners
to his duty. The dark eyes of the negroes rolled along the
short rank to see who would be the first to desert their master,
and grins of delight showed the satisfaction with
which they noted the effect of the appeal. As for Mike, he
felt too strongly to keep silence, and he muttered the passing
impressions aloud.
“Och!”—growled the county Leitrim-man—“Is it a good
journey that I wish the runaways? That it isn't, nor many
a good male either, as they trudge alang t'rough the woods,
with their own consciences forenent their eyes, pricking
them up to come back, like so many t'ieves of the wor-r-ld,
as they are, every mother's son of 'em, women and all. I'd
nivir do that; no, not if my head was all scalp, down to the
soles of my fut, and an Injin was at every inch of it, to cut
out his summer clothes of my own skin. Talk of religion
amang sich cr'athures! — Why, there isn't enough moral in
one of thim to carry him through the shortest prayer the
Lord allows a christian to utter. Divil burn'em say I, and
that's my kindest wish in their behalf.”
The captain waited patiently for this soliloquy to terminate;
then he dismissed the men, with a few more words
of encouragement, and his thanks for the fidelity they, at
least, had shown. By this time the night had got to be dark,
and the court was much more so, on account of the shadows
of the buildings, than places in the open air. As the captain
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turned aside to give his last instructions to Joyce, he discovered,
by the light of the lantern the latter held, a figure
standing at no great distance, quite dimly seen on account
of its proximity to the walls of the Hut. It was clearly a
man; and as all the males able to bear arms, a single sentinel
outside the court excepted, were supposed to be in the
group that had not yet separated, the necessity of ascertaining
the character of this unlooked-for visiter flashed on
the minds of both the old soldiers at the same instant. Joyce
raised the lantern, as they moved quickly towards the motionless
form, and its light glanced athwart a pair of wild,
glowing, dark eyes, and the red visage of an Indian.
“Nick!” exclaimed the captain, “is that you? — What
has brought you here again, and how have you entered the
palisades? — Do you come as a friend, to aid us, or as an
enemy?”
“Too much question, cap'in—too much like squaw; ask
all togeder. Go to book-room; Nick follow; tell all he got
to say.”
The captain whispered the serjeant to ascertain whether
the watch without was vigilant, when he led the way to the
library, where, as he expected, he found his wife and daughters,
anxiously waiting his appearance.
“Oh! Hugh, I trust it is not as bad as we feared!” cried
the mother, as the captain entered the room, closely attended
by the Tuscarora; “our men cannot be so heartless as to
desert us at such a moment!”
The captain kissed his wife, said a word or two of encouragement,
and pointed to the Indian.
“Nick!” exclaimed all three of the females, in a breath.
Though the tones of their voices denoted very different sensations,
at the unexpected appearance of their old acquaintance.
Mrs. Willoughby's exclamation was not without pleasure,
for she thought the man her friend; Beulah's was
filled with alarm, little Evert and savage massacres suddenly
crossing the sensitive mind of the young mother; while
Maud's tone had much of the stern resolution that she had
summoned to sustain her in a moment of such fearful trial.
“Yes, Nick — Sassy Nick,” repeated the Indian, in his
guttural voice—“Ole friend—you no glad see him?”
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“That will depend on your errand,” interposed the captain.
“Are you one of the party that is now lying at the
mill? — but, stop; how did you get within the palisades?
First answer me that.”
“Come in. Tree no good to stop Injin. Can't do it
wid branches, how do it widout? Want plenty of musket
and plenty of soldier to do dat. Dis no garrison, cap'in, to
make Nick afeard. Always tell him too much hole to be
tight.”
“This is not answering my question, fellow. By what
means did you pass the palisades?”
“What means? — Injin means, sartain. Came like cat,
jump like deer, slide like snake. Nick great Tuscarora
chief; know well how warrior march, when he dig up
hatchet.”
“And Nick has been a great hanger-on of garrisons, and
should know the use that I can make of his back. You
will remember, Tuscarora, that I have had you flogged,
more than once, in my day.”
This was said menacingly, and with more warmth, perhaps,
than was prudent. It caused the listeners to start, as
if a sudden and new danger rose before their eyes, and the
anxious looks he encountered warned the captain that he
was probably going too far. As for Nick, himself, the gathering
thunder-cloud is not darker than his visage became
at the words he heard; it seemed by the moral writhing of
his spirit as if every disgracing blow he had received was at
that instant torturing his flesh anew, blended with the keenest
feelings of ignominy. Captain Willoughby was startled at
the effect he had produced; but it was too late to change his
course; and he remained in dignified quiet, awaiting the
workings of the Tuscarora's mind.
It was more than a minute ere Nick made any reply.
Gradually, but very slowly, the expression of his visage
changed. It finally became as stoical in expression as severe
training could render the human countenance, and as
unmoved as marble. Then he found the language he
wanted.
“Listen,” said the Indian, sternly. “Cap'in ole man.
Got a head like snow on rock. He bold soldier; but he
no got wisdom enough for gray hair. Why he put he hand
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[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]
rough, on place where whip strike? Wise man nebber do
dat. Last winter he cold; fire wanted to make him warm.
Much ice, much storm, much snow. World seem bad—fit
only for bear, and snake, dat hide in rock. Well; winter
gone away; ice gone away; snow gone away; storm gone
away. Summer come, in his place. Ebbery t'ing good—
ebbery t'ing pleasant. Why t'ink of winter, when summer
come, and drive him away wid pleasant sky?”
“In order to provide for its return. He who never thought
of the evil day, in the hour of his prosperity, would find that
he has forgotten, not only a duty, but the course of wisdom.”
“He not wise!” said Nick, sternly. “Cap'in pale-face
chief. He got garrison; got soldier; got musket. Well,
he flog warrior's back; make blood come. Dat bad enough;
worse to put finger on ole sore, and make 'e pain, and 'e
shame, come back ag'in.”
“Perhaps it would have been more generous, Nick, to
have said nothing about it; but, you see how I am situated;
an enemy without, my men deserting, a bad look-out, and
one finding his way into my very court-yard, and I ignorant
of the means.”
“Nick tell cap'in all about means. If red-men outside,
shoot 'em; if garrison run away, flog garrison; if don't
know, I'arn; but, don't flog back, ag'in, on ole sore!”
“Well, well, say no more about it, Nick. Here is a dollar
to keep you in rum, and we will talk of other matters.”
Nick heeded not the money, though it was held before his
eyes, some little time, to tempt him. Perceiving that the
Tuscarora was now acting as a warrior and a chief, which
Nick would do, and do well, on occasion, the captain pocketed
the offering, and regulated his own course accordingly.
“At all events, I have a right to insist on knowing, first,
by what means you entered the palisades; and, second,
what business has brought you here, at night, and so suddenly.”
“Ask Nick, cap'in, all he right to ask; but, don't touch
ole flog. How I cross palisade? Where your sentinel to
stop Injin? One at gate; well, none all round, t'other place.
Get in, up here, down dere, over yonder. Ten, twenty,
t'ree spot — s'pose him tree? climb him. S'pose him
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palisade?—climb him, too. What help?—Soldier out at gate,
when Nick get over t'other end! Come in court, too, when
he want. Half gate half no gate. So easy, 'shamed to brag
of. Cap'in once Nick's friend — went on same war-path —
dat in ole time. Both warrior; both went ag'in French
garrison. Well; who crept in, close by cannon, open gate,
let pale-men in. Great Tuscarora do dat; no flog, den —
no talk of ole sore, dat night!”
“This is all true enough, Wyandotté”—This was Nick's
loftiest appellation; and a grim, but faint smile crossed his
visage, as he heard it, again, in the mouth of one who had
known him when its sound carried terror to the hearts of
his enemies—“This is all true, Wyandotté, and I have ever
given you credit for it. On that occasion you were bold as
the lion, and as cunning as a fox—you were much honoured
for that exploit.”
“No ole sore in dat, um?” cried Nick, in a way so startling
as to sicken Mrs. Willoughby to the heart. “No call
Nick dog, dat night. He all warrior, den — all face; no
back.”
“I have said you were honoured for your conduct, Nick,
and paid for it. Now, let me know what has brought you
here to-night, and whence you come.”
There was another pause. Gradually, the countenance
of the Indian became less and less fierce, until it lost its expression
of malignant resentment in one in which human
emotions of a kinder nature predominated.
“Squaw good,” he said, even gently, waving his hand
towards Mrs. Willoughby — “Got son; love him like little
baby. Nick come six, two time before, runner from her
son.”
“My son, Wyandotté!” exclaimed the mother — “Bring
you any tidings, now, from my boy?”
“No bring tidin'—too heavy; Indian don't love to carry
load—bring letter.”
The cry from the three females was now common, each
holding out her hand, with an involuntary impulse, to receive
the note. Nick drew the missive from a fold of his
garment, and placed it in the hand of Mrs. Willoughby, with
a quiet grace that a courtier might have wished to equal, in
vain.
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The note was short, and had been written in pencil, on a
leaf torn from some book of coarse paper. The handwriting,
however, was at once recognised as Robert Willoughby's,
though there was no address, nor any signature. The paper
merely contained the following—
“Trust to your defences, and to nothing else. This party
has many white men in it, disguised as Indians. I am suspected,
if not known. You will be tampered with, but the
wisest course is to be firm. If Nick is honest, he can tell
you more; if false, this note will be shown, even though it
be delivered. Secure the inner gates, and depend more on
the house itself, than on the palisades. Fear nothing for
me—my life can be in no danger.”
This note was read by each, in succession, Maud turning
aside to conceal the tears that fell fast on the paper, as she perused
it. She read it last, and was enabled to retain it; and
precious to her heart was the boon, at such a moment, when
nearly every sensation of her being centred in intense feeling
in behalf of the captive.
“We are told to inquire the particulars of you, Nick,”
observed the captain; “I hope you will tell us nothing but
truth. A lie is so unworthy a warrior's mouth!”
“Nick didn't lie 'bout beaver dam! Cap'in no find him
good, as Indian say?”
“In that you dealt honestly, and I give you credit for it.
Has any one seen this letter but ourselves, yourself, and the
person who wrote it?”
“What for ask? If Nick say no, cap'in t'ink he lie.
Even fox tell trut' some time; why not Injin? Nick say
NO.”
“Where did you leave my son, and when? — Where is
the party of red-skins at this moment?”
“All pale-face in hurry! Ask ten, one, four question,
altogeder. Well; answer him so. Down here, at mill;
down dere, at mill; half an hour, six, two, ten o'clock.”
“I understand you to say that major Willoughby was at
the mill when you saw him last, and that this was only half
an hour since?”
The Tuscarora nodded his head in assent, but made no
other reply. Even as he did this, his keen eyes rolled over
the pallid faces of the females in a way to awaken the
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captain's distrust, and he resumed his questions in a tone that
partook more of the military severity of his ancient habits
than of the gentler manner he had been accustomed to use
of late years.
“You know me, Nick,” he said sternly, “and ought to
dread my displeasure.”
“What cap'in mean, now?” demanded the Indian,
quietly.
“That the same whip is in this fort that I always kept in
the other, in which you knew me to dwell; nor have I forgotten
how to use it.”
The Tuscarora gazed at the captain with a very puzzling
expression, though, in the main, his countenance appeared
to be ironical rather than fierce.
“What for, talk of whip, now?” he said. “Even Yengeese
gen'ral hide whip, when he see enemy. Soldier can't
fight when back sore. When battle near, den all good
friend; when battle over, den flog, flog, flog. Why talk
so?—Cap'in nebber strike Wyandotté.”
“Your memory must be short, to say this! I thought an
Indian kept a better record of what passed.”
“No man dare strike Wyandotté!” exclaimed the Indian,
with energy. “No man — pale-face or red-skin, can
give blow on back of Wyandotté, and see sun set!”
“Well — well — Nick; we will not dispute on this point,
but let bye-gones be bye-gones. What has happened, has
happened, and I hope will never occur again.”
“Dat happen to Nick — Sassy Nick — poor, drunken
Nick — to Wyandotté, nebber!”
“I believe I begin to understand you, now, Tuscarora,
and am glad I have a chief and a warrior in my house, instead
of a poor miserable outcast. Shall I have the pleasure
of filling you a glass in honour of our old campaigns?”
“Nick alway dry—Wyandotté know no thirst. Nick,
beggar—ask for rum—pray for rum—t'ink of rum, talk of
rum, laugh for rum, cry for rum. Wyandotté don't know
rum, when he see him. Wyandotté beg not'in'; no, not his
scalp.”
“All this sounds well, and I am both willing and glad,
chief, to receive you in the character in which you give me
to understand you have now come. A warrior of
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Wyandotté's high name is too proud to carry a forked tongue in
his mouth, and I shall hear nothing but truth. Tell me,
then, all you know about this party at the mill; what has
brought it here, how you came to meet my son, and what
will be the next step of his captors. Answer the questions
in the order in which I put them.”
“Wyandotté not newspaper to tell ebbery t'ing at once.
Let cap'in talk like one chief speaking to anoder.”
“Then, tell me first, what you know of this party at the
mill. Are there many pale-faces in it?”
“Put 'em in the river,” answered the Indian, sententiously;
“water tell the trut'.”
“You think that there are many among them that would
wash white?”
“Wyandotté know so. When did red warriors ever travel
on their path like hogs in drove? One red-man there, as
Great Spirit make him; by his side two red-men as paint
make 'em. This soon told on trail.”
“You struck their trail, then, and joined their company,
in that manner?”
Another nod indicated the assent of the Indian. Perceiving
that the Tuscarora did not intend to speak, the captain continued
his interrogatories.
“And how did the trail betray this secret, chief?” he
asked.
“Toe turn out—step too short—trail too broad—trail too
plain—march too short.”
“You must have followed them some distance, Wyandott
é, to learn all this?”
“Follow from Mohawk — join 'em at mill. Tuscarora
don't like too much travel with Mohawk.”
“But, according to your account, there cannot be a great
many red-skins in the party, if the white men so much out-number
them.”
Nick, now, raised his right hand, showing all the fingers
and the thumb, at each exhibition, four several times. Then
he raised it once, showing only the fore-finger and thumb.
“This makes twenty-two, Nick — Do you include yourself
in the number?”
“Wyandotté, a Tuscarora—he count Mohawks.”
“True—Are there any other red-men among them?”
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[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]
“Oneida, so”—holding up four fingers only. After which
he held up a single finger, adding—“Onondaga, so.”
“Twenty-two Mohawks, four Oneidas, and a single Onondaga,
make twenty-seven in all. To these, how many whites
am I to add?—You counted them, also?”
The Indian now showed both hands, with all the fingers
extended, repeating the gestures four times; then he showed
one hand entire, and two fingers on the other.
“Forty-seven. Add these to the red-skins, and we get
seventy-four for the total. I had supposed them rather
stronger than this, Wyandotté?”
“No stronger — no weaker — just so. Good many ole
womans, too, among pale-faces.”
“Old women! — You are not speaking literally, Nick?
All that I have seen appear to be men.”
“Got beard; but ole woman, too. Talk—talk—talk;—
do not'in'. Dat what Injin call ole woman. Party, poor
party; cap'in beat 'em, if he fight like ole time.”
“Well, this is encouraging, Wilhelmina, and Nick seems
to be dealing fairly with us.”
“Now, inquire more about Robert, Hugh”—said the wife,
in whose maternal heart her children were always uppermost.
“You hear, Nick; my wife is desirous of learning something
about her son, next.”
During the preceding dialogue, there had been something
equivocal in the expression of the Indian's face. Every
word he uttered about the party, its numbers, and his own
manner of falling in with it, was true, and his countenance
indicated that he was dealing fairly. Still, the captain fancied
that he could detect a covert fierceness in his eye and
air, and he felt uneasiness even while he yielded him credence.
As soon as Mrs. Willoughby, however, interposed,
the gleam of ferocity that passed so naturally and readily
athwart the swarthy features of the savage, melted into a
look of gentleness, and there were moments when it might
be almost termed softness.
“Good to have moder”—said Nick, kindly. “Wyandotté
got no squaw—wife dead, moder dead, sister dead—all gone
to land of spirits—by'm bye, chief follow. No one throw
stone on his grave! Been on death-path long ago, but
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[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]
cap'in's squaw say `stop, Nick; little too soon, now; take
medicine, and get well.' Squaw made to do good. Chief
alway like 'e squaw, when his mind not wild with war.”
“And your mind, Wyandotté, is not wild with war, now,”
answered Mrs. Willoughby, earnestly. “You will help a
mother, then, to get her son out of the hands of merciless
enemies?”
“Why you t'ink merciless? Because pale-face dress like
Injin, and try to cheat?”
“That may be one reason; but I fear there are many
others. Tell me, Wyandotté, how came you to discover
that Robert was a prisoner, and by what means did he contrive
to give you his letter?”
The Indian assumed a look of pride, a little blended with
hauteur; for he felt that he was manifesting the superiority
of a red-man over the pale-face, as he related the means
through which he had made his discoveries.
“Read book on ground,” Nick answered gravely. “Two
book alway open before chief; one in sky, t'other on ground.
Book in sky, tell weather — snow, rain, wind, thunder,
lightning, war — book on ground, tell what happen.”
“And what had this book on the ground to do with my
son, Wyandotté?”
“Tell all about him. Major's trail first seen at mill. No
moccasin—much boot. Soldier boot like letter—say great
deal, in few word. First t'ink it cap'in; but it too short.
Den know it Major.”
“This sounds very well, Nick,” interrupted the captain,
“though you will excuse me if I say it is going a little too
far. It seems impossible that you should know that the
print of the foot was that of my son. How could you be
certain of this?”
“How could, eh? Who follow trail from house, here, to
Hudson river? T'ink Nick blind, and can't see? Tuscarora
read his book well as pale-face read bible.” Here Nick
looked round him a moment, raised his fore-finger, dropped
his voice, and added earnestly—“see him at Bunker Hill—
know him among ten, six, two t'ousand warrior. Know dat
foot, if meet him in Happy Hunting Ground.”
“And why my son's foot, in particular? The boot is often
changed, can never be exactly like its predecessor, and one
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boot is so much like another, that to me the thing seems
impossible. This account of the boot, Nick, makes me
distrust your whole story.”
“What distrust?” demanded the Indian like lightning.
“It means doubt, uncertainty—distrust.”
“Don't believe, ha?”
“Yes, that is it, substantially. Don't more than half believe,
perhaps, would be nearer to the mark.”
“Why, ole soldier alway distrust; squaw nebber? Ask
moder—ha!—you t'ink Nick don't know son's trail—handsome
trail, like young chief's?”
“I can readily believe Nick might recognise Bob's trail,
Hugh”—expostulated Mrs. Willoughby. “He has a foot in
a thousand—you may remember how every one was accustomed
to speak of his beautiful foot, even when he was a
boy. As a man, I think it still more remarkable.”
“Ay, go on, Nick, in this way, and my wife will believe
all you say. There is no distrust in a mother's partiality,
certainly. You are an old courtier, and would make your
way at St. James's.”
“Major nebber tell about foot?” asked Nick, earnestly.
“I remember nothing; and had he spoken of any such
thing, I must have heard it. But, never mind the story,
now; you saw the foot-print, and knew it for my son's. Did
you ask to be admitted to his prison? or was your intercourse
secret?”
“Wyandotté too wise to act like squaw, or boy. See
him, widout look. Talk, widout speak—hear, widout ear.
Major write letter, Nick take him. All done by eye and
hand; not'in' done by tongue, or at Council Fire. Mohawk
blind like owl!”
“May I believe you, Tuscarora; or, incited by demons,
do you come to deceive me?”
“Ole warrior look two time before he go; t'ink ten time
before he say, yes. All good. Nick no affronted. Do so
himself, and t'ink it right. Cap'in may believe all Nick
say.”
“Father!” cried Maud, with simple energy, “I will answer
for the Indian's honesty. He has guided Robert so
often, and been with him in so many trying scenes, he never
-- 059 --
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can have the heart to betray him, or us. Trust him, then;
he may be of infinite service.”
Even captain Willoughby, little disposed as he was to
judge Nick favourably, was struck with the gleam of manly
kindness that shot across the dark face of the Indian, as he
gazed at the glowing cheek and illuminated countenance of
the ardent and beautiful girl.
“Nick seems disposed to make a truce with you, at least,
Maud,” he said, smiling, “and I shall now know where to
look for a mediator, whenever any trouble arises between
us.”
“I have known Wyandotté, dear sir, from childhood, and
he has ever been my friend. He promised me, in particular,
to be true to Bob, and I am happy to say he has ever kept
his word.”
This was telling but half the story. Maud had made the
Indian many presents, and most especially had she attended
to his wants, when it was known he was to be the major's
guide, the year previously, on his return to Boston. Nick
had known her real father, and was present at his death.
He was consequently acquainted with her actual position in
the family of the Hutted Knoll; and, what was of far more
consequence in present emergencies, he had fathomed the
depths of her heart, in a way our heroine could hardly be
said to have done herself. Off her guard with such a being,
Maud's solicitude, however, had betrayed her, and the penetrating
Tuscarora had discerned that which had escaped the
observation of father, and mother, and sister. Had Nick
been a pale-face, of the class of those with whom he usually
associated, his discovery would have gone through the settlement,
with scoffings and exaggerations; but this forest
gentleman, for such was Wyandotté, in spite of his degradation
and numerous failings, had too much consideration
to make a woman's affections the subject of his coarseness
and merriment. The secrets of Maud would not have been
more sacred with her own brother, had such a relative
existed to become her confidant, than it was with Saucy
Nick.
“Nick gal's friend,” observed the Indian, quietly; “dat
enough; what Nick say, Nick mean. What Nick mean,
-- 060 --
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he do. Come, cap'in; time to quit squaw, and talk about
war.”
At this hint, which was too plain to be misunderstood,
captain Willoughby bade the Indian withdraw to the court,
promising to follow him, as soon as he could hold a short
conference with Joyce, who was now summoned to the
council. The subject of discussion was the manner in which
the Tuscarora had passed the stockade, and the probability
of his being true. The serjeant was disposed to distrust all
red-men, and he advised putting Nick under arrest, and to
keep him in durance, until the return of light, at least.
“I might almost say, your honour, that such are orders,
sir. The advice to soldiers carrying on war with savages,
tells us that the best course is to pay off treachery with
treachery; and treachery is a red-skin's manual exercise.
There is O'Hearn will make a capital sentinel, for the fellow
is as true as the best steel in the army. Mr. Woods' room
is empty, and it is so far out of the way that nothing will be
easier than to keep the savage snug enough. Besides, by
a little management, he might fancy we were doing him
honour all the while.”
“We will see, serjeant,” answered the captain. “It has
a bad appearance, and yet it may be the wisest thing we can
do. Let us first go the rounds, taking Nick with us for
safety, and determine afterwards.”
-- 061 --
CHAPTER V.
[figure description] Page 061.[end figure description]
“His hand was stay'd—he knew not why;
'Twas a presence breathed around—
A pleading from the deep-blue sky,
And up from the teeming ground.
It told of the care that lavish'd had been
In sunshine and in dew—
Of the many things that had wrought a screen
When peril round it grew.”
Mrs. Seba Smith.
The desertions gave not only the captain, but his great
support and auxiliary, the serjeant, the gravest apprehensions.
A disposition of that nature is always contagious,
men abandoning a failing cause much as rats are known to
quit a sinking ship. It is not a matter of surprise, therefore,
that the distrust which accompanied the unexpected appearance
of the Tuscarora, became associated with this falling
off in the loyalty of the garrison, in the minds of the two
old soldiers.
“I do think, your honour,” said Joyce, as they entered
the court together, “that we may depend on O'Hearn, and
Jamie, and Strides. The latter, as a matter of course, being
a corporal, or serjeant as he calls himself; and the two first,
as men who have no ties but such as would be likely to keep
them true to this family. But here is the corporal to speak
for himself.”
As this was said, corporal Strides, as the serjeant persisted
in terming Joel, on the ground that being but one step
higher himself, the overseer could justly claim no rank of
greater pretension, approached the captain, taking care to
make the military salute which Joyce had never succeeded
before in extracting from him, notwithstanding a hundred
admonitions on the subject.
“This is a distressing affair, captain Willoughby,” observed
Joel, in his most jesuitical manner; “and to me it is
altogether onaccountable! It does seem to me ag'in natur',
-- 062 --
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for a man to desart his own household and hum' (Joel meant
`home') in the hour of trial. If a fellow-being wunt (Anglice
`wont') stand by his wife and children, he can hardly be
expected to do any of his duties.”
“Quite true, Strides,” answered the confiding captain,
“though these deserters are not altogether as bad as you
represent, since, you will remember, they have carried their
wives and children with them.”
“I believe they have, sir—yes, that must be allowed to
be true, and that it is, which to me seems the most extr'or'nary.
The very men that a person would calcilate on the
most, or the heads of families, have desarted, while them
that remain behind are mostly single!”
“If we single men have no wives and children of our
own to fight for, Strides,” observed Joyce, with a little military
stiffness, “we have the wife and children of captain
Willoughby; no man who wishes to sell his life dearly,
need look for a better motive.”
“Thank you, serjeant,” the captain said, feelingly—“On
you, I can rely as on myself. So long as I have you, and
Joel, here, and Mike and the blacks, and the rest of the
brave fellows who have stood by me thus far, I shall not
despair. We can make good the house against ten times
our own number. But, it is time to look to the Indians.”
“I was going to speak to the captain about Nick,” put in
Joel, who had listened to the eulogium on his own fidelity
with some qualms of conscience. “I can't say I like the
manner he has passed between the two parties; and that
fellow has always seemed to me as if he owed the captain a
mortal grudge; when an Injin does owe a grudge, he is
pretty sartain to pay it, in full.”
“This has passed over my mind, too, I will confess, Joel;
yet Nick and I have been on reasonably good terms, when
one comes to remember his character, on the one side, and
the fact that I have commanded a frontier garrison on the
other. If I have had occasion to flog him a few times, I
have also had occasion to give him more rum than has done
him good, with now and then a dollar.”
“There I think the captain miscalcilates,” observed Joel,
with a knowledge of human nature that would have been
creditable to him, had he practised on it himself. “No man
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is thankful for rum when the craving is off, sin' he knows
he has been taking an inimy into his stomach; and as for
the money, it was much the same as giving the liquor, seein'
that it went for liquor as soon as he could trot down to the
mill. A man will seek his revenge for rum, as soon as for
anything else, when he gets to feel injuries uppermost. Besides,
I s'pose the captain knows an injury will be remembered
long a'ter a favour is forgotten.”
“This may be true, Strides, and certainly I shall keep
my eyes on the Indian. Can you mention any particular
act, that excites your suspicion?”
“Don't the captain think Nick may have had suthin' to
do with the desartions?—A dozen men would scarce desart
all at once, as it might be, onless some one was at the bottom
of it.”
This was true enough, certainly, though Joel chose to
keep out of view all his own machinations and arts on the
subject. The captain was struck by the suggestion, and he
determined to put his first intention in respect to Nick in
force immediately. Still, it was necessary to proceed with
caution, the state of the Hut rendering a proper watch and
a suitable prison difficult to be obtained. These circumstances
were mentioned to the overseer, who led the way to
the part of the buildings occupied by his own family; and,
throwing open the doors, ostentatiously exhibited Phœbe
and her children in their customary beds, at a moment when
so many others had proved recreant. His professed object
was to offer a small closet in his own rooms as a prison for
Nick, remarking he must be an ingenious savage indeed, if
he could escape the vigilance of as many watchful eyes as
would then be on him.
“I believe you, Strides,” said the captain, smiling as he
walked away from the place; “if he can escape Phœbe and
her children, the fellow must be made of quicksilver. Still,
I have a better prison in view. I am glad to see this proof,
however, of your own fidelity, by finding all your family in
their beds; for those are not wanting who would have me
suspect even you.”
“Me!—Well, if the captain can't count on his own overseer,
I should like to ask such persons on whom he can
count? Madam Willoughby and the young ladies isn't more
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[figure description] Page 064.[end figure description]
likely to remain true than I am, myself, I should think.
What in reason, or natur', or all lawful objects, could make
me—”
Joel was about to run into that excess of vindication that
is a little apt to mark guilt; but, the captain cut him short,
by telling him it was unnecessary, recommending vigilance,
and walking away in search of Nick.
The Indian was found standing beneath the arch of the
gateway, upright, motionless, and patient. A lantern was
kept burning here, the place being used as a sort of guard-house;
and, by its light, it was easy to perceive the state
of the still unhung leaf of the passage. This leaf, however,
was propped in its place, by strong timbers; and, on the
whole, many persons would think it the most secure half
of the gate. Captain Willoughby observed that the Indian
was studying this arrangement when he entered the place
himself. The circumstance caused him uneasiness, and
quickened his determination to secure the Indian.
“Well, Nick,” he said, concealing his intention under an
appearance of indifference, “you see our gates are well
fastened, and steady hands and quick eyes will do the rest.
It is getting late, and I wish to have you comfortably lodged
before I lie down myself. Follow me, and I will show you
to a place where you will be at your ease.”
The Tuscarora understood the captain's object the instant
he spoke of giving him comfortable lodgings, a bed being a
thing that was virtually unknown to his habits. But, he
raised no objections, quietly treading in the other's footsteps,
until both were in the bed-room of the absent Mr. Woods.
The apartments of the chaplain were above the library, and,
being in the part of the house that was fortified by the cliff,
they had dormer windows that looked toward the forest.
The height of these windows the captain thought would be
a sufficient security against flight; and by setting Mike and
one of the Plinys on the look-out, to relieve each other at
intervals of four hours, he thought the Tuscarora might be
kept until the return of light. The hour when he most apprehended
danger was that which just precedes the day,
sleep then pressing the heaviest on the sentinel's eye-lids,
and rest having refreshed the assailants.
“Here, Wyandotté, I intend you shall pass the night,”
-- 065 --
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said the captain, assuming as much courtesy of manner as
if he were doing the honours of his house to an invited and
honoured guest. “I know you despise a bed, but there are
blankets, and by spreading them on the floor, you can make
your own arrangements.”
Nick made a gesture of assent, looking cautiously around
him, carefully avoiding every appearance of curiosity at the
same time, more in pride of character, however, than in
cunning. Nevertheless, he took in the history of the locality
at a glance.
“It is well,” he said; “a Tuscarora chief no t'ink of
sleep. Sleep come standing, walking; where he will, when
he will. Dog eats, den lie down to sleep; warrior always
ready. Good bye, cap'in—to-morrow see him ag'in.”
“Good night, Nick. I have ordered your old friend
Mike, the Irishman, to come and sit in your room, lest you
might want something in the night. You are good friends
with Mike, I believe; I chose him on that account.”
The Indian understood this, too; but not an angry gleam,
no smile, nor any other sign, betrayed his consciousness of
the captain's motives.
“Mike good,” he answered, with emphasis. “Long
tongue—short t'ink. Say much; mean little. Heart sound,
like hard oak—mind, like spunk—burn quick, no too much
strong.”
This sententious and accurate delineation of the county
Leitrim-man's characteristics induced a smile in the captain;
but, O'Hearn entering at the moment, and possessing his
entire confidence, he saw no use in replying. In another
minute the two worthies were left in possession of the bedroom,
Michael having received a most solemn injunction not
to be tempted to drink.
It was now so late, the captain determined to let the regular
watches of the night take their course. He held a short
consultation with Joyce, who took the first ward, and then
threw himself on a mattrass, in his clothes, his affectionate
wife having done the same thing, by the side of her daughters
and grandson in an adjoining room. In a short time,
the sounds of footsteps ceased in the Hut; and, one unacquainted
with the real state of the household, might have
-- 066 --
[figure description] Page 066.[end figure description]
fancied that the peace and security of one of its ancient
midnights were reigning about the Knoll.
It was just two in the morning, when the serjeant tapped
lightly at the door of his commanding officer's room. The
touch was sufficient to bring the captain to his feet, and he
instantly demanded the news.
“Nothing but sentry-go, your honour,” replied Joyce.
“I am as fresh as a regiment that is just marching out of
barracks, and can easily stand the guard till day-light.
Still, as it was orders to call your honour at two, I could do
no less, you know, sir.”
“Very well, serjeant—I will just wash my eyes, and be
with you in a minute. How has the night gone?”
“Famously quiet, sir. Not even an owl to trouble it.
The sentinels have kept their eyes wide open, dread of the
scalping-knife being a good wakener, and no sign of any
alarm has been seen. I will wait for your honour, in the
court, the moment of relieving guard being often chosen by
a cunning enemy for the assault.”
“Yes,” sputtered the captain, his face just emerging from
the water—“if he happen to know when that is.”
In another minute, the two old soldiers were together in
the court, waiting the return of Jamie Allen with his report,
the mason having been sent round to the beds of the fresh
men to call the guard. It was not long, however, before
the old man was seen hastening towards the spot where
Joyce had bid him come.
“The Lord ha' maircy on us, and on a' wretched sinners!”
exclaimed Jamie, as soon as near enough to be
heard without raising his voice on too high a key—“there
are just the beds of the three Connecticut lads that were to
come into the laird's guard, as empty as a robin's nest fra'
which the yang ha' flown!”
“Do you mean, Jamie, that the boys have deserted?”
“It's just that; and no need of ca'ing it by anither name.
The Hoose o' Hanover wad seem to have put the deil in a'
the lads, women and children included, and to have raised
up a spirit o' disaffection, that is fast leaving us to carry on
this terrible warfare with our ain hearts and bodies.”
“With your honour's permission,” said the serjeant, “I
-- 067 --
[figure description] Page 067.[end figure description]
would ask corporal Allen if the deserters have gone off with
their arms and accoutrements?”
“Airms? Ay, and legs, and a' belonging to 'em, with
mair that is the lawfu' property of the laird. Not so much
as a flint is left behind.”
“Then we may count on seeing all the fellows in the
enemy's ranks,” the serjeant quietly remarked, helping himself
to the tobacco from which he had refrained throughout
the previous hours of the night, Joyce being too much of a
martinet to smoke or chew on duty. “It's up-hill work,
your honour, when every deserter counts two, in this manner.
The civil wars, however, are remarkable for this sort
of wheeling, and facing to the right-about; the same man
often changing his colours two or three times in a campaign.”
Captain Willoughby received the news of this addition to
his ill luck with an air of military stoicism, though he felt,
in reality, more like a father and a husband on the occasion
than like a hero. Accustomed to self-command, he succeeded
in concealing the extent of his uneasiness, while he
immediately set about inquiring into the extent of the evil.
“Joel is to join my watch,” he said, “and he may throw
some light on this affair. Let us call him, at once, for a
few minutes may prove of importance.”
Even while speaking, the captain crossed the court, accompanied
by the serjeant and mason; and, ceremony being
little attended to on such occasions, they all entered the
quarters of Strides, in a body. The place was empty!
Man, woman, and children had abandoned the spot, seemingly
in a body; and this, too, far from empty-handed. The
manner in which the room had been stripped, indeed, was
the first fact which induced the captain to believe that a man
so much and so long trusted would desert him in a strait so
serious. There could be no mistake; and, for a moment,
the husband and father felt such a sinking of the heart as
would be apt to follow the sudden conviction that his enemies
must prevail.
“Let us look further, Joyce,” he said, “and ascertain
the extent of the evil at once.”
“This is a very bad example, your honour, that corporal
Strides has set the men, and we may expect to hear of more
-- 068 --
[figure description] Page 068.[end figure description]
desertions. A non-commissioned officer should have had
too much pride for this! I have always remarked, sir, in
the army, that when a non-commissioned officer left his
colours, he was pretty certain to carry off a platoon with
him.”
The search justified this opinion of the serjeant. A complete
examination of the quarters of all the men having been
made, it was ascertained that every white man in the Hut,
the serjeant, Jamie Allen, and a young New England
labourer of the name of Blodget excepted, had abandoned
the place. Every man had carried off with him his arms
and ammunition, leaving the rooms as naked of defence as
they had been before they were occupied. Women and
children, too, were all gone, proving that the flights had
been made deliberately, and with concert. This left the
Hut to be defended by its owner, the serjeant, the two Plinys
and a young descendant of the same colour, Jamie Allen,
Blodget and Mike, who had not yet been relieved from his
ward over the Indian; eight men in all, who might possibly
receive some assistance from the four black females in the
kitchen.
The captain examined this small array of force, every
man but Mike being up and in the line, with a saddened
countenance; for he remembered what a different appearance
it made only the previous day, when he had his gallant
son too, with him, a host in himself. It added mortification
to regret, also, when he remembered that this great loss had
been made without a single blow having been struck in defence
of his precious family, and his lawful rights.
“We must close the gate of the court, and bar it at once,
Joyce,” the captain said, as soon as fully apprised of the
true state of his force. “It will be quite sufficient if we
make good the house, with this handful of men; giving up
all hope of doing anything with the stockade. It is the
facility offered by the open gateway that has led to all this
mischief.”
“I don't know, your honour. When desertion once fairly
gets into a man's mind, it's wonderful the means he will
find to bring about his wishes. Corporal Strides, no doubt,
has passed his family and his kit through both gates; for,
being in authority, our people were hardly disciplined enough
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to understand the difference between a non-commissioned
officer on guard and one off guard; but, there were a hundred
ways to mischief, even had there been no gate. Jamie,
take one of the blacks, and bar the inner gate. What is
your honour's pleasure next?”
“I wish my mind were at ease on the subject of the Tuscarora.
With Nick's assistance as a runner and spy, and
even as a sharp-shooter, we should be vastly stronger. See
to the gate yourself, serjeant, then follow me to Mr. Woods'
room.”
This was done, the captain waiting for his companion on
the threshold of the outer door. Ascending the narrow stairs,
they were soon on the floor above, and were happy to find
the door of the Tuscarora's prison fastened without, as they
had left it; this precaution having been taken as a salutary
assistance to O'Hearn's sagacity. Undoing these fastenings,
the serjeant stepped aside to allow his superior to precede
him, as became their respective stations. The captain advanced,
holding the lantern before him, and found an empty
room. Both Nick and Mike were gone, though it was not
easy to discover by what means they had quitted the place.
The door was secure, the windows were down, and the
chimney was too small to allow of the passage of a human
body. The defection of the Irishman caused the captain
great pain, while it produced surprise even in the serjeant,
Mike's fidelity had been thought of proof; and, for an instant,
the master of the place was disposed to believe some
evil spirit had been at work to corrupt his people.
“This is more than I could have expected, Joyce!” he
said, as much in sorrow as in anger. “I should have as
soon looked for the desertion of old Pliny as that of Mike!”
“It is extr'or'nary, sir; but one is never safe without inand-in
discipline. A drill a week, and that only for an hour
or two of a Saturday afternoon, captain Willoughby, may
make a sort of country militia, but it will do nothing for the
field. `Talk of enlisting men for a year, serjeant Joyce,'
said old colonel Flanker to me, one day in the last war—
`why it will take a year to teach a soldier how to eat. Your
silly fellows in the provincial assemblies fancy because a
man has teeth, and a stomach, and an appetite, that he
knows how to eat; but eating is an art, serjeant; and
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military eating above all other branches of it; and I maintain a
soldier can no more learn how to eat,' as a soldier, the colonel
meant, your honour, `than he can learn to plan a campaign
by going through the manual exercise.' For my part,
captain Willoughby, I have always thought it took a man
his first five years' enlistment to learn how to obey orders.”
“I had thought that Irishman's heart in the right place,
Joyce, and counted as much on him as I did on you!”
“On me, captain Willoughby!” answered the serjeant,
in a tone of mortification. “I should think your honour
would have made some difference between your old orderly—
a man who had served thirty years in your own regiment,
and most of the time in your own company, and a bit of a
wild Hibernian of only ten years' acquaintance, and he a
man who never saw a battalion paraded for real service!”
“I see my error now, Joyce; but Michael had so much
blundering honesty about him, or seemed to have, that I
have been his dupe. It is too late, however, to repine; the
fellow is gone; it only remains to ascertain the manner of
his flight. May not Joel have undone the fastenings of the
door, and let him and the Indian escape together, in common
with the rest of the deserters?”
“I secured that door, sir, with my own hands, in a military
manner, and know that it was found as I left it. The
Rev. Mr. Woods' bed seems to have been disturbed; perhaps
that may furnish a clue.”
A clue the bed did furnish, and it solved the problem.
The bed-cord was removed, and both the sheets and one of
the blankets were missing. This directed the inquiry to the
windows, one of which was not closed entirely. A chimney
stood near the side of this window, and by its aid it was not
difficult to reach the ridge of the roof. On the inner side
of the roof was the staging, or walk, already mentioned;
and, once on that, a person could make the circuit of the
entire roof, in perfect safety. Joyce mounted to the ridge,
followed by the captain, and gained the staging with a little
effort, whence they proceeded round the buildings to ascertain
if the rope was not yet hanging over the exterior, as a
means of descent. It was found as expected, and withdrawn
lest it might be used to introduce enemies within the house.
These discoveries put the matter of Michael's delinquency
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at rest. He had clearly gone off with his prisoner, and
might next be looked for in the ranks of the besiegers. The
conviction of this truth gave the captain more than uneasiness;
it caused him pain, for the county Leitrim-man had
been a favourite with the whole family, and most especially
with his daughter Maud.
“I do not think you and the blacks will leave me, Joyce,”
he observed, as the serjeant and himself descended, by the
common passage, to the court. “On you I can rely, as I
would rely on my noble son, were he with me at this moment.”
“I beg your honour's pardon — few words tell best for a
man, deeds being his duty — but, if your honour will have
the condescension just to issue your orders, the manner in
which they shall be obeyed will tell the whole story.”
“I am satisfied of that, serjeant; we must put shoulder to
shoulder, and die in the breach, should it be necessary, before
we give up the place.”
By this time the two old soldiers were again in the court,
where they found all their remaining force, of the male sex;
the men being too uneasy, indeed, to think of going to their
pallets, until better assured of their safety. Captain Willoughby
ordered Joyce to draw them up in line again, when
he addressed them once more in person.
“My friends,” the captain commenced, “there would be
little use in attempting to conceal from you our real situation;
nor would it be strictly honest. You see here every
man on whom I can now depend for the defence of my fire-side
and family. Mike has gone with the rest, and the Indian
has escaped in his company. You can make up your
own opinions of our chances of success, but my resolution
is formed. Before I open a gate to the merciless wretches
without, who are worse than the savages of the wilderness,
possessing all their bad and none of their redeeming qualities,
it is my determination to be buried under the ruins of
this dwelling. But you are not bound to imitate my example;
and, if any man among you, black or white, regrets
being here at this moment, he shall still have arms and ammunition,
and food given him, the gates shall be opened,
and he may go freely to seek his safety in the forest. For
God's sake, let there be no more desertions; he that wishes
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to quit me, may now quit me unmolested; but, after this
moment, martial law will be enforced, and I shall give orders
to shoot down any man detected in treachery, as I
would shoot down a vicious dog.”
This address was heard in profound silence. No man
stirred, nor did any man speak.
“Blodget,” continued the captain, “you have been with
me a shorter time than any other person present, and cannot
feel the same attachment to me and mine as the rest. You
are the only native American among us, Joyce excepted —
for we count the blacks as nothing in respect to country —
and may feel that I am an Englishman born, as I fear has
been the case with the rest of your friends. Perhaps I
ought not to ask you to remain. Take your arms, then,
and make the best of your way to the settlements. Should
you reach Albany, you might even serve me essentially by
delivering a letter I will confide to you, and which will bring
us effectual succour.”
The young man did not answer, though his fingers worked
on the barrel of his musket, and he shifted his weight,
from leg to leg, like one whose inward feelings were moved.
“I believe I understand you, captain Willoughby,” he
said, at length, “though I think you don't understand me.
I know you old country people think meanly of us new
country people, but I suppose that's in the natur' of things;
then, I allow Joel Strides' conduct has been such as to give
you reason to judge us harshly. But there is a difference
among us, as well as among the English; and some of us—
I won't say I am such a man, but actions speak louder than
words, and all will be known in the end — but some of us
will be found true to our bargains, as well as other men.”
“Bravely answered, my lad,” cried the serjeant, heartily,
and looking round at his commander with exultation, to
congratulate him on having such a follower — “This is a
man who will obey orders through thick and thin, I'll answer
for it, your honour. Little does he care who's king
or who's governor, so long as he knows his captain and his
corps.”
“There you are mistaken, serjeant Joyce,” the youth observed,
firmly. “I'm for my country, and I'd quit this
house in a minute, did I believe captain Willoughby meant
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to help the crown. But I have lived long enough here, to
know he is at the most neutral; though I think he rather
favours the side of the colonies than that of the crown.”
“You have judged rightly, Blodget,” observed the captain.
“I do not quite like this declaration of independence,
though I can scarce blame congress for having made it. Of
the two, I think the Americans nearest right, and I now
conceive myself to be more of an American than an Englishman.
I wish this to be understood, Joyce.”
“Do you, sir? — It's just as your honour pleases. I
didn't know which side it was your pleasure to support, nor
does it make any great difference with most of us. Orders
are orders, let them come from king or colonies. I would
take the liberty of recommending, your honour, that this
young man be promoted. Strides' desertion has left a vacancy
among the corporals, and we shall want another for
the guard. It would hardly do to make a nigger a corporal.”
“Very well, Joyce, have it as you wish,” interrupted the
captain, a little impatiently; for he perceived he had a spirit
to deal with in Blodget that must hold such trifles at their
true value. “Let it be corporal Allen and corporal Blodget
in future.”
“Do you hear, men? — These are general orders. The
relieved guard will fall out, and try to get a little sleep, as
we shall parade again half an hour before day.”
Alas! the relieved guard, like the relief itself, consisted
of only two men, corporal Blodget and Pliny the younger;
old Pliny, in virtue of his household work, being rated as an
idler. These five, with the captain and the serjeant, made
the number of the garrison seven, which was the whole male
force that now remained.
Captain Willoughby directed Joyce and his two companions
to go to their pallets, notwithstanding, assuming the
charge of the look-out himself, and profiting by the occasion
to make himself better acquainted with the character of his
new corporal than circumstances had hitherto permitted.
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CHAPTER VI.
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For thee they fought, for thee they fell,
And their oath was on thee laid;
To thee the clarions raised their swell,
And the dying warriors pray'd.”
Percival.
The distaste for each other which existed between the
people of New England and those of the adjoining colonies,
anterior to the war of the revolution, is a matter of history.
It was this feeling that threw Schuyler, one of the ablest
and best men in the service of his country, into the shade,
a year later than the period of which we are writing. This
feeling was very naturally produced, and, under the circumstances,
was quite likely to be active in a revolution. Although
New England and New York were contiguous territories,
a wide difference existed between their social conditions.
Out of the larger towns, there could scarcely be said
to be a gentry at all, in the former; while the latter, a conquered
province, had received the frame-work of the English
system, possessing Lords of the Manor, and divers other of
the fragments of the feudal system. So great was the social
equality throughout the interior of the New England provinces,
indeed, as almost to remove the commoner distinctions
of civilised associations, bringing all classes surprisingly
near the same level, with the exceptions of the very low, or
some rare instance of an individual who was raised above
his neighbours by unusual wealth, aided perhaps by the accidents
of birth, and the advantages of education.
The results of such a state of society are easily traced.
Habit had taken the place of principles, and a people accustomed
to see even questions of domestic discipline referred,
either to the church or to public sentiment, and who knew
few or none of the ordinary distinctions of social intercourse,
submitted to the usages of other conditions of society, with
singular distaste and stubborn reluctance. The native of
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New England deferred singularly to great wealth, in 1776,
as he is known to defer to it to-day; but it was opposed to
all his habits and prejudices to defer to social station. Unused
to intercourse with what was then called the great
world of the provinces, he knew not how to appreciate its
manners or opinions; and, as is usual with the provincial,
he affected to despise that which he neither practised nor
understood. This, at once, indisposed him to acknowledge
the distinctions of classes; and, when accident threw him
into the adjoining province, he became marked, at once, for
decrying the usages he encountered, comparing them, with
singular self-felicitation, to those he had left behind him;
sometimes with justice beyond a doubt, but oftener in provincial
ignorance and narrow bigotry.
A similar state of things, on a larger scale, has been witnessed,
more especially in western New York, since the
peace of '83; the great inroads of emigrants from the New
England states having almost converted that district of
country into an eastern colony. Men of the world, while
they admit how much has been gained in activity, available
intelligence of the practical school, and enterprise, regret
that the fusion has been quite so rapid and so complete; it
being apparently a law of nature that nothing precious that
comes of man shall be enjoyed altogether without alloy.
The condition in which captain Willoughby was now
placed, might have been traced to causes connected with
the feelings and habits above alluded to. It was distasteful
to Joel Strides, and one or two of his associates, to see a
social chasm as wide as that which actually existed between
the family of the proprietor of the Knoll and his own, growing
no narrower; and an active cupidity, with the hopes of
confiscations, or an abandonment of the estate, came in aid
of this rankling jealousy of station; the most uneasy, as it
is the meanest of all our vices. Utterly incapable of appreciating
the width of that void which separates the gentleman
from the man of coarse feelings and illiterate vulgarity,
he began to preach that doctrine of exaggerated and mistaken
equality which says “one man is as good as another,”
a doctrine that is nowhere engrafted even on the most democratic
of our institutions to-day, since it would totally
supersede the elections, and leave us to draw lots for public
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trusts, as men are drawn for juries. On ordinary occasions,
the malignant machinations of Strides would probably have
led to no results; but, aided by the opinions and temper of the
times, he had no great difficulty in undermining his master's
popularity, by incessant and well-digested appeals to the
envy and cupidity of his companions. The probity, liberality,
and manly sincerity of captain Willoughby, often counteracted
his schemes, it is true; but, as even the stone yields
to constant attrition, so did Joel finally succeed in overcoming
the influence of these high qualities, by dint of perseverance,
and cunning, not a little aided by certain auxiliaries
freely obtained from the Father of Lies.
As our tale proceeds, Joel's connection with the late
movement will become more apparent, and we prefer leaving
the remainder of the explanations to take their proper places
in the course of the narrative.
Joyce was so completely a matter of drill, that he was in
a sound sleep three minutes after he had lain down, the
negro who belonged to his guard imitating his industry in
this particular with equal coolness. As for the thoughtful
Scotchman, Jamie Allen, sleep and he were strangers that
night. To own the truth, the disaffection of Mike not only
surprised, but it disappointed him. He remained in the
court, therefore, conversing on the subject with the “laird,”
after his companions had fallen asleep.
“I wad na hae' thought that o' Michael,” he said, “for
the man had an honest way with him, and was so seeming
valiant, that I could na hae' supposed him capable of proving
a desairter. Mony's the time that I've heard him swear—
for Michael was an awfu' hand at that vice, when his betters
were no near to rebuke him — but often has he swore that
Madam, and her winsome daughters, were the pride of his
een; ay, and their delight too!”
“The poor fellow has yielded to my unlucky fortune,
Jamie,” returned the captain, “and I sometimes think it
were better had you all imitated his example.”
“Begging pairdon, captain Willoughby, for the familiarity,
but ye're just wrang, fra' beginning to end, in the
supposition. No man with a hairt in his body wad desairt
ye in a time like this, and no mair's to be said in the
matter. Nor do I think that luuk has had anything to do
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with Michael's deficiency, unless ye ca' it luuk to be born
and edicated in a misguiding religion. Michael's catholicity
is at the bottom of his backsliding, ye'll find, if ye look
closely into the maiter.”
“I do not see how that is to be made out, Allen; all sects
of the Christian religion, I believe, teaching us to abide by
our engagements, and to perform our duties.”
“Na doubt — na doubt, 'squire Willoughby — there's a
seeming desire to teach as much in a' churches; but ye'll
no deny that the creatur' o' Rome wears a mask, and that
catholicity is, at the best, but a wicked feature to enter into
the worship of God.”
“Catholicism, Jamie, means adherence to the catholic
church—”
“Just that—just that”—interrupted the Scot, eagerly—
“and it's that o' which I complain. All protestants—wather
fully disposed, or ainly half-disposed, as may be the
case with the English kirk — all protestants agree in condemning
the varry word catholic, which is a sign and a
symbol of the foul woman o' Babylon.”
“Then, Jamie, they agree in condemning what they don't
understand. I should be sorry to think I am not a member
of the catholic church myself.”
Yersal'! — No, captain Willoughby, ye're no catholic,
though you are a bit akin to it, perhaps. I know that Mr.
Woods, that's now in the hands o' the savages, prays for
the catholics, and professes to believe in what he ca's the
`Holy Catholic Kirk;' but, then, I've always supposed that
was in the way o' christian charity like; for one is obleeged
to use decent language, ye'll be acknowledging, sir, in the
pulpit, if it's only for appearance's sake.”
“Well—well—Jamie; a more fitting occasion may occur
for discussing matters of this nature, and we will postpone
the subject to another time. I may have need of your services
an hour or two hence, and it will be well for every
man to come to the work fresh and clear-headed. Go to
your pallet then, and expect an early call.”
The mason was not a man to oppose such an order coming
from the `laird;' and he withdrew, leaving the captain
standing in the centre of the court quite alone. We say
alone, for young Blodget had ascended to the gallery or
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staging that led around the inner sides of the roofs, while
the negro on guard was stationed at the gateway, as the
only point where the Hut could be possibly carried by a
coup-de-main. As the first of these positions commanded
the best exterior view from the inside of the buildings, the
captain mounted the stairs he had so recently descended,
and joined the young Rhode Islander at his post.
The night was star-light, but the elevation at which the
two watchers were placed, was unfavourable to catching
glimpses of any lurking enemy. The height confounded
objects with the ground on which they were placed, though
Blodget told the captain he did not think a man could cross
the palisades without his being seen. By moving along the
staging on the southern side of the quadrangle, he could
keep a tolerable look-out, on the front and two flanks, at
the same time. Still, this duty could not be performed without
considerable risk, as the head and shoulders of a man
moving along the ridge of the building would be almost
certain to attract the eye of any Indian without. This was
the first circumstance that the captain remarked on joining
his companion, and gratitude induced him to point it out, in
order that the other might, in a degree at least, avoid the
danger.
“I suppose, Blodget, this is the first of your service,”
said captain Willoughby, “and it is not easy to impress on
a young man the importance of unceasing vigilance against
savage artifices.”
“I admit the truth of all you say, sir,” answered Blodget,
“though I do not believe any attempt will be made on the
house, until the other side has sent in what the serjeant calls
another flag.”
“What reason have you for supposing this?” asked the
captain, in a little surprise.
“It seems unreasonable for men to risk their lives when
an easier way to conquest may seem open to them. That
is all I meant, captain Willoughby.”
“I believe I understand you, Blodget. You think Joel
and his friends have succeeded so well in drawing off my
men, that they may be inclined to wait a little, in order to
ascertain if further advantages may not be obtained in the
same way.”
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Blodget confessed that he had some such thoughts in his
mind, while, at the same time, he declared that he believed
the disaffection would go no further.
“It is not easy for it to do so,” returned the captain,
smiling a little bitterly, as he remembered how many who
had eaten of his bread, and had been cared for by him, in
sickness and adversity, had deserted him in his need, “unless
they persuade my wife and daughters to follow those
who have led the way.”
Respect kept Blodget silent for a minute; then uneasiness
induced him to speak.
“I hope captain Willoughby don't distrust any who now
remain with him,” he said. “If so, I know I must be the
person.”
“Why you, in particular, young man? With you, surely,
I have every reason to be satisfied.”
“It cannot be serjeant Joyce, for he will stay until he
get your orders to march,” the youth replied, not altogether
without humour in his manner; “and, as for the Scotchman,
he is old, and men of his years are not apt to wait so
long, if they intend to be traitors. The negroes all love
you, as if you were their father, and there is no one but me
left to betray you.”
“I thank you for this short enumeration of my strength,
Blodget, since it gives me new assurance of my people's
fidelity. You I will not distrust; the others I cannot, and
there is a feeling of high confidence—What do you see?—
why do you lower your piece, and stand at guard, in this
manner?”
“That is a man's form, sir, on the right of the gate, trying
to climb the palisades. I have had my eye on it, for
some time, and I feel sure of my aim.”
“Hold an instant, Blodget; let us be certain before we
act.”
The young man lowered the butt of his piece, waiting
patiently and calmly for his superior to decide. There was
a human form visible, sure enough, and it was seen slowly
and cautiously rising until it reached the summit of the
stockade, where it appeared to pause to reconnoitre. Whether
it were a pale-face or a red-skin, it was impossible to
distinguish, though the whole movement left little doubt that
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an assailant or a spy was attempting to pass the outer
defences.
“We cannot spare that fellow,” said the captain, with a
little regret in his manner; “it is more than we can afford.
You must bring him down, Blodget. The instant you have
fired, come to the other end of the stage, where we will
watch the result.”
This arranged, the captain prudently passed away from
the spot, turning to note the proceedings of his companion,
the moment he was at the opposite angle of the gallery,
Blodget was in no haste. He waited until his aim was certain;
then the stillness of the valley was rudely broken by
the sharp report of a rifle, and a flash illumined its obscurity.
The figure fell outward, like a bird shot from its perch,
lying in a ball at the foot of the stockade. Still, no cry or
groan gave evidence of nature surprised by keen and unexpected
anguish. At the next instant Blodget was by captain
Willoughby's side. His conduct was a pledge of fidelity
that could not be mistaken, and a warm squeeze of the hand
assured the youth of his superior's approbation.
It was necessary to be cautious, however, and to watch
the result with ceaseless vigilance. Joyce and the men below
had taken the alarm, and the serjeant with his companions
were ordered up on the stage immediately, leaving
the negro, alone, to watch the gate. A message was also
sent to the females, to give them confidence, and particularly
to direct the blacks to arm, and to repair to the loops.
All this was done without confusion, and with so little
noise as to prevent those without from understanding what
was in progress. Terror kept the negroes silent, and discipline
the others. As every one had lain down in his or her
clothes, it was not a minute before every being in the Hut
was up, and in motion. It is unnecessary to speak of the
mental prayers and conflicting emotions with which Mrs.
Willoughby and her daughters prepared themselves for the
struggle; and, yet, even the beautiful and delicate Maud
braced her nerves to meet the emergency of a frontier assault.
As for Beulah, gentle, peaceful, and forgiving as she
was by nature, the care of little Evert aroused all the mother
within her, and something like a frown that betokened resolution
was, for a novelty, seen on her usually placid face.
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A moment sufficed to let Joyce and his companions into
the state of affairs. There now being four armed men on
the stage, one took each of the three exposed sides of the
buildings to watch, leaving the master of the house to move
from post to post, to listen to suggestions, hear reports, and
communicate orders.
The dark object that lay at the foot of the palisades was
pointed out to the serjeant the instant he was on the stage,
and one of his offices was to observe it, in order to ascertain
if it moved, or whether any attempts were made to carry
off the body. The American Indians attach all the glory
or shame of a battle to the acquisition or loss of scalps, and
one of their practices was to remove those who had fallen,
at every hazard, in order to escape the customary mutilation.
Some tribes even believed it disgrace to suffer a dead
body to be struck by the enemy, and many a warrior has
lost his life in the effort to save the senseless corpse of a
comrade from this fancied degradation.
As soon as the little stir created in the Hut by the mustering
of the men was over, a stillness as profound as that
which had preceded the alarm reigned around the place.
No noise came from the direction of the mill; no cry, or
call, or signal of battle was heard; everything lay in the
quiet of midnight. Half an hour thus passed, when the
streak of light that appeared in the east announced the approach
of day.
The twenty minutes that succeeded were filled with intense
anxiety. The slow approach of light gradually brought
out object after object in the little panorama, awakening and
removing alike, conjectures and apprehensions. At first the
grey of the palisades became visible; then the chapel, in its
sombre outlines; the skirts of the woods; the different cabins
that lined them; the cattle in the fields, and the scattering
trees. As for Joyce, he kept his gaze fastened on the object
at the foot of the stockade, expecting every instnat there
would be an attempt to carry it off.
At length, the light became so strong as to allow the eye
to take in the entire surface of the natural glacis without
the defences, bringing the assurance that no enemy was
near. As the ground was perfectly clear, a few fruit-trees
and shrubs on the lawn excepted, and by changing positions
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on the stage, these last could now be examined on all sides,
nothing was easier than to make certain of this fact. The
fences, too, were light and open, rendering it impossible for
any ambush or advancing party to shelter itself behind them.
In a word, daylight brought the comfortable assurance to
those within the palisades that another night was passed
without bringing an assault.
“We shall escape this morning, I do believe, Joyce,” said
the captain, who had laid down his rifle, and no longer felt
it necessary to keep the upper portions of his body concealed
behind the roof—“Nothing can be seen that denotes an
intention to attack, and not an enemy is near.”
“I will take one more thorough look, your honour,” answered
the serjeant, mounting to the ridge of the building,
where he obtained the immaterial advantage of seeing more
at the same time, at the risk of exposing his whole person,
should any hostile rifle be in reach of a bullet—“then we
may be certain.”
Joyce was a man who stood just six feet in his stockings;
and, losing no part of this stature by his setting up, a better
object for a sharp-shooter could not have been presented
than he now offered. The crack of a rifle soon saluted the
ears of the garrison; then followed the whizzing of the bullet
as it came humming through the air towards the Hut. But
the report was so distant as at once to announce that the
piece was discharged from the margin of the forest; a certain
evidence of two important facts; one, that the enemy had
fallen back to a cover; the other, that the house was narrowly
watched.
Nothing tries the nerves of a young soldier more than the
whizzing of a distant fire. The slower a bullet or a shot
approaches, the more noise it makes; and, the sound continuing
longer than is generally imagined, the uninitiated
are apt to imagine that the dangerous missile is travelling
on an errand directly towards themselves. Space appears
annihilated, and raw hands are often seen to duck at a
round shot that is possibly flying a hundred yards from
them.
On the present occasion, the younger Pliny fairly squatted
below the root Jamie thought it prudent to put some of his
own masonry, which was favourably placed in an adjacent
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chimney for such a purpose, between him and the spot
whence the report proceeded; while even Blodget looked up
into the air, as if he expected to see where the bullet was
going. Captain Willoughby had no thought of the missile;
he was looking for the smoke in the skirts of the woods, to
note the spot; while Joyce, with folded arms, stood at rest
on the ridge, actually examining the valley in another direction,
certain that a fire so distant could not be very dangerous.
Jamie's calculation proved a good one. The bullet struck
against the chimney, indented a brick, and fell upon the
shingles of the roof. Joyce descended at the next instant,
and he coolly picked up, and kept tossing the flattened bit
of lead in his hand, for the next minute or two, with the air
of a man who seemed unconscious of having it at all.
“The enemy is besieging us, your honour,” said Joyce,
“but he will not attack at present. If I might presume to
advise, we shall do well to leave a single sentinel on this
stage, since no one can approach the palisades without being
seen, if the man keeps in motion.”
“I was thinking of this myself, serjeant; we will first
post Blodget here. We can trust him; and, as the day
advances, a less intelligent sentinel will answer. At the
same time, he must be instructed to keep an eye in the rear
of the Hut, danger often coming from the quarter least expected.”
All this was done, and the remainder of the men descended
to the court. Captain Willoughby ordered the gate unbarred,
when he passed outside, taking the direction towards the lifeless
body, which still lay where it had fallen, at the foot of
the stockades. He was accompanied by Joyce and Jamie
Allen, the latter carrying a spade, it being the intention to
inter the savage as the shortest means of getting rid of a
disagreeable object. Our two old soldiers had none of the
sensitiveness on the subject of exposure that is so apt to
disturb the tyro in the art of war. With sentinels properly
posted, they had no apprehensions of dangers that did not
exist, and they moved with confidence and steadily wherever
duty called. Not only was the inner gate opened and passed,
but the outer also, the simple precaution of stationing a man
at the first being the only safeguard taken.
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When outside of the palisades, the captain and his companions
proceeded at once towards the body. It was now
sunrise, and a rich light was illuminating the hill-tops,
though the direct rays of the luminary had not yet descended
to the valley. There lay the Indian, precisely as he had
fallen, no warrior having interposed to save him from the
scalping-knife. His head had reached the earth first, and
the legs and body were tumbled on it, in a manner to render
the form a confused pile of legs and blanket, rather than
a bold savage stretched in the repose of death.
“Poor fellow!” exclaimed the captain, as the three approached
the spot; “it is to be hoped Blodget's bullet did its
commission faithfully, else the fall must have hurt him
sadly.”
“By Jove, 'tis nothing but a stuffed soldier!” cried Joyce,
rolling the ingeniously contrived bundle over with his foot;
“and here, the lad's ball has passed directly through its
head! This is Injin deviltry, sir; it has been tried, in order
to see whether our sentinels were or were not asleep.”
“To me, Joyce, it seems more like a white man's clumsiness.
The fellow has been made to resemble an Indian, but
people of our own colour have had a hand in the affair.”
“Well, sir, let that be as it may, it is lucky our youngster
had so quick an eye, and so nimble a finger. See, your
honour; here is the pole by which the effigy was raised to
the top of the palisades, and here is the trail on the grass
yet, by which his supporter has crept off. The fellow seems
to have scrambled along in a hurry; his trail is as plain as
that of a whole company.”
The captain examined the marks left on the grass, and
was of opinion that more than one man had been employed
to set up the decoy figure, a circumstance that seemed probable
in itself, when the weight of the image and the danger
of exposure were remembered. Let that be as it might, he
was rejoiced on reflection that no one was hurt, and he still
retained the hope of being able to come to such an understanding
with his invaders as to supersede the necessity of
actual violence.
“At all events, your honour, I will carry the quaker in,”
said Joyce, tossing the stuffed figure on a shoulder. “He
will do to man the quaker gun at least, and may be of use
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in frightening some one of the other side, more than he has
yet frightened us.”
Captain Willoughby did not object, though he reminded
Joyce that the desertions had probably put the enemy in
possession of a minute statement of their defences and force,
including the history of the wooden gun. If Joel and his
fellow-delinquents had joined the party at the mill, the name,
age, character and spirit of every man remaining in the
garrison were probably known to its leaders; and neither
quakers nor paddies would count for much in opposing an
assault.
The captain came within the gate of the palisades last,
closing, barring, and locking it with his own hands, when
all immediate apprehensions from the enemy ceased. He
knew, certainly, that it would probably exceed his present
means of resistance, to withstand a vigorous assault; but,
on the other hand, he felt assured that Indians would never
approach a stockade in open day, and expose themselves to
the hazards of losing some fifteen or twenty of their numbers,
before they could carry the place. This was opposed
to all their notions of war, neither honour nor advantage
tempting them to adopt it. As for the first, agreeably to
savage notions, glory was to be measured by the number
of scalps taken and lost; and, counting all the women left
in the Hut, there would not be heads enough to supply a
sufficient number to prove an offset to those which would
probably be lost in the assault.
All this did the captain discuss in few words, with the
serjeant, when he proceeded to join his anxious and expecting
wife and daughters.
“God has looked down upon us in mercy, and protected
us this night,” said the grateful Mrs. Willoughby, with
streaming eyes, as she received and returned her husband's
warm embrace. “We cannot be too thankful, when we
look at these dear girls, and our precious little Evert. If
Robert were only with us now, I should be entirely happy!”
“Such is human nature, my little Maud”—answered the
captain, drawing his darling towards himself and kissing
her polished forehead. “The very thoughts of being in our
actual strait would have made your mother as miserable as
her worst enemy could wish — if, indeed, there be such a
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monster on earth as her enemy — and, now she protests
she is delighted because our throats were not all cut last
night. We are safe enough for the day I think, and not
another night shall one of you pass in the Hut, if I can have
my way. If there be such a thing as desertion, there is
such a thing as evacuation also.”
“Hugh!—What can you, do you mean! Remember, we
are surrounded by a wilderness.”
“I know our position reasonably well, wife of mine, and
intend to turn that knowledge to some account, God willing,
and aiding. I mean to place old Hugh Willoughby by the
side of Xenophon and Washington, and let the world see
what a man is capable of, on a retreat, when he has such a
wife, two such daughters, and a grandson like that, on his
hands. As for Bob, I would not have him here, on any
account. The young dog would run away with half the
glory.”
The ladies were too delighted to find their father and
husband in such spirits, to be critical, and all soon after sat
down to an early breakfast, to eat with what appetite they
could.
CHAPTER VII.
Yet I well remember
The favours of these men: were they not mine?
Did they not sometimes cry, all hail! to me?
So Judas did to Christ: but he, in twelve
Found truth in all but one; I in twelve thousand none.
Richard II.
That which captain Willoughby had said in seeming
pleasantry he seriously meditated. The idea of passing
another night in the Hut, supported by only six men, with
more than ten times that number besieging him, and with
all the secrets of his defences known, through the disaffection
of his retainers, was, to the last degree, painful to him.
Had his own life, alone, been at risk, military pride might
have tempted him to remain; but his charge was far too
precious to be exposed on account of considerations so vain.
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No sooner, therefore, was the breakfast over, than the
captain summoned Joyce to a consultation on the contemplated
movement. The interview took place in the library,
whither the serjeant repaired, on receiving his superior's
orders. As to the party without, no apprehension was felt,
so long as the sentinels were even moderately vigilant, and
the day lasted.
“I suppose, serjeant,” commenced captain Willoughby,
“a soldier of your experience is not to be taught what is the
next resort of a commanding officer, when he finds himself
unable to make good his ground against his enemy in
front?”
“It is to retreat, your honour. The road that cannot be
passed, must be turned.”
“You have judged rightly. It is now my intention to
evacuate the Hut, and to try our luck on a march to the
rear. A retreat, skilfully executed, is a creditable thing;
and any step appears preferable to exposing the dear beings
in the other room to the dangers of a night assault.”
Joyce appeared struck with the suggestion; though, if one
might have judged from the expression of his countenance,
far from favourably. He reflected a moment ere he answered.
“Did your honour send for me,” he then inquired, “to
issue orders for this retreat, or was it your pleasure to hear
anything I might have to say about it?”
“The last — I shall give no orders, until I know your
opinion of the measure.”
“It is as much the duty of an inferior to speak his mind
freely, when he is called for an opinion, captain Willoughby,
as it is to obey in silence, when he gets nothing but orders.
According to my views of the matter, we shall do better to
stand our ground, and try to make good the house against
these vagabonds, than to trust to the woods.”
“Of course you have your reasons for this opinion,
Joyce?”
“Certainly, your honour. In the first place, I suppose it
to be against the rules of the art of war to evacuate a place
that is well provisioned, without standing an assault. This
we have not yet done. It is true, sir, that our ranks are
thinned by desertions; but I never heard of a garrisoned
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town, or a garrisoned house, capitulating on account of a
few deserters; and, I take it, evacuation is only the next
step before capitulation.”
“But our desertions, Joyce, have not been few, but many.
Three times as many have left us, if we include our other
losses, as remain. It matters not whence the loss proceeds,
so long as it is a loss.”
“A retreat, with women and baggage, is always a ticklish
operation, your honour, especially if an enemy is pressing
your rear! Then we have a wilderness before us, and the
ladies could hardly hold out for so long a march as that
from this place to the Mohawk; short of which river they
will hardly be as safe as they are at present.”
“I have had no such march in view, Joyce. You know
there is a comfortable hut, only a mile from this very spot,
on the mountain side, where we commenced a clearing for
a sheep-pasture, only three summers since. The field is in
rich grass; and, could we once reach the cabin, and manage
to drive a cow or two up there, we might remain a month
in security. As for provisions and clothes, we could carry
enough on our backs to serve us all several weeks; especially
if assisted by the cows.”
“I 'm glad your honour has thought of this idea,” said
the serjeant, his face brightening as he listened; “it will be
a beautiful operation to fall back on that position, when we
can hold out no longer in this. The want of some such
arrangement has been my only objection to this post, captain
Willoughby; for, we have always seemed to me, out
here in the wilderness, like a regiment drawn up with a
ravine or a swamp in its rear.”
“I am glad to find you relishing the movement for any
cause, serjeant. It is my intention at present to make the
necessary arrangements to evacuate the Hut, while it is
tight; and, as soon as it is dark, to retreat by the gates, the
palisades, and the rivulet—How now, Jamie? You look
as if there were news to communicate?”
Jamie Allen, in truth, had entered at that instant in so
much haste as to have overlooked the customary ceremony
of sending in his name, or even of knocking.
“News!” repeated the mason, with a sort of wondering
smile; “and it 's just that I 've come to bring. Wad ye
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think it, baith, gentlemen, that our people are in their ain
cabins ag'in, boiling their pots, and frying their pork, a' the
same as if the valley was in a state of tranquillity, and we
so many lairds waiting for them to come and do our pleasure!”
“I do not understand you, Jamie — whom do you mean
by `our people?”'
“Sure, just the desairters; Joel, and the miller, and Michael,
and the rest.”
“And the cabins — and the pots — and the pork — it is
gibberish to me.”
“I hae what ye English ca' an aiccent, I know; but, in
my judgment, captain Willoughby, the words may be comprehended
without a dictionary. It 's just that Joel Strides,
and Daniel the miller, and the rest o' them that fleed, the
past night, have gane into their ain abodes, and have lighted
their fires, and put over their pots and kettles, and set up
their domestic habitudes, a' the same as if this Beaver Dam
was ain o' the pairks o' Lonnon!”
“The devil they have! Should this be the case, serjeant,
our sortie may be made at an earlier hour than that mentioned.
I never will submit to such an insult.”
Captain Willoughby was too much aroused to waste many
words; and, seizing his hat, he proceeded forthwith to take
a look for himself. The stage, or gallery on the roofs, offering
the best view, in a minute he and his two companions
were on it.
“There; ye 'll be seein' a smoke in Joel's habitation,
with your own een; and, yon is anither, in the dwelling of
his cousin Seth,” said Jamie, pointing in the direction he
named.
“Smoke there is, of a certainty; but the Indians may
have lighted fires in the kitchen, to do their own cooking.
This looks like investing us, serjeant, rather more closely
than the fellows have done before.”
“I rather think not, your honour—Jamie is right, or my
eyes do not know a man from a woman. That is certainly
a female in the garden of Joel, and I 'll engage it 's Phœbe,
pulling onions for his craving stomach, the scoundrel!”
Captain Willoughby never moved without his little glass,
and it was soon levelled at the object mentioned.
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“By Jupiter, you are right, Joyce” — he cried. “It is
Phœbe, though the hussy is coolly weeding, not culling the
onions! Ay — and now I see Joel himself! The rascal is
examining some hoes, with as much philosophy as if he
were master of them, and all near them. This is a most
singular situation to be in!”
This last remark was altogether just. The situation of
those in the Hut was now singular indeed. Further examination
showed that every cabin had its tenant, no one of the
party that remained within the palisades being a householder.
By using the glass, and pointing it, in succession, at the
different dwellings, the captain in due time detected the presence
of nearly every one of the deserters. Not a man of
them all, in fact, was missing, Mike alone excepted. There
they were, with their wives and children, in quiet possession
of their different habitations. Nor was this all; the business
of the valley seemed as much on their minds as had been
their practice for years. Cows were milked, the swine were
fed, poultry was called and cared for, and each household
was also making the customary preparations for the morning
meal.
So absorbed was the captain with this extraordinary scene,
that he remained an hour on the staging, watching the course
of events. The breakfasts were soon over, having been
later than common, and a little hurried; then commenced
the more important occupations of the day. A field was
already half ploughed, in preparation for a crop of winter
grain; thither Joel himself proceeded, with the necessary
cattle, accompanied by the labourers who usually aided him
in that particular branch of husbandry. Three ploughs
were soon at work, with as much regularity and order as
if nothing had occurred to disturb the tranquillity of the
valley. The axes of the wood-choppers were next heard,
coming out of the forest, cutting fuel for the approaching
winter; and a half-finished ditch had its workmen also,
who were soon busy casting up the soil, and fashioning
their trench. In a word, all the suspended toil was renewed
with perfect system and order.
“This beats the devil himself, Joyce!” said the captain,
after a half-hour of total silence. “Here are all these fellows
at work as cooly as if I had just given them their
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tasks, and twice as diligently. Their unusual industry is a
bad symptom of itself!”
“Your honour will remark one circumstance. Not a
rascal of them all comes within the fair range of a musket;
for, as to throwing away ammunition at such distances, it
would be clearly unmilitary, and might be altogether useless.”
“I have half a mind to scatter them with a volley”—said
the captain, doubtingly. “Bullets would take effect among
those ploughmen, could they only be made to hit.”
“And amang the cattle, too,” observed the Scotsman,
who had an eye on the more economical part of the movement,
as well as on that which was military. “A ball
would slay a horse as well as a man in such a skairmish.”
“This is true enough, Jamie; and it is not exactly the
sort of warfare I could wish, to be firing at men who were
so lately my friends. I do not see, Joyce, that the rascals
have any arms with them?”
“Not a musket, sir. I noticed that, when Joel first detailed
his detachments. Can it be possible that the savages
have retired?”
“Not they; else would Mr. Strides and his friends have
gone with them. No, serjeant, there is a deep plan to lead
us into some sort of ambush in this affair, and we will be on
the look-out for them.”
Joyce stood contemplating the scene for some time, in
profound silence, when he approached the captain formally,
and made the usual military salute; a ceremony he had
punctiliously observed, on all proper occasions, since the
garrison might be said to be placed under martial law.
“If it's your honour's pleasure,” he said, “I will detail
a detachment, and go out and bring in two or three of these
deserters; by which means we shall get into their secrets.”
“A detachment, Joyce!” answered the captain, eyeing
his subordinate a little curiously — “What troops do you
propose to tell-off for the service?”
“Why, your honour, there's corporal Allen and old
Pliny off duty; I think the thing might be done with them,
if your honour would have the condescension to order corporal
Blodget, with the two other blacks, to form as a supporting
party, under the cover of one of the fences.”
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“A disposition of my force that would leave captain Willoughby
for a garrison! I thank you, serjeant, for your offer
and gallantry, but prudence will not permit it. We may
set down Strides and his companions as so many knaves,
and—”
“That may ye!” cried Mike's well-known voice, from
the scuttle that opened into the garrets, directly in front of
which the two old soldiers were conversing — “That may
ye, and no har-r-m done the trut', or justice, or for that
matther, meself. Och! If I had me will of the blackguards,
every rogue of 'em should be bound hand and fut and laid
under that pratthy wather-fall, you at the mill, until his sins
was washed out of him. Would there be confessions then?—
That would there; and sich letting out of sacrets as would
satisfy the conscience of a hog!”
By the time Mike had got through this sentiment he was
on the staging, where he stood hitching up his nether garment,
with a meaning grin on his face that gave a peculiar
expression of heavy cunning to the massive jaw and capacious
mouth, blended with an honesty and good-nature that
the well-meaning fellow was seldom without when he addressed
any of the captain's family. Joyce glanced at the
captain, expecting orders to seize the returned run-away;
but his superior read at once good faith in the expression of
his old retainer's countenance.
“You have occasioned us a good deal of surprise, O'Hearn,
on more accounts than one,” observed the captain, who
thought it prudent to assume more sternness of manner than
his feelings might have actually warranted. “You have
not only gone off yourself, but you have suffered your prisoner
to escape with you. Then your manner of getting
into the house requires an explanation. I shall hear what
you have to say before I make up my mind as to your conduct.”
“Is it spake I will?—That will I, and as long as it plase
yer honour to listen. Och! Isn't that Saucy Nick a quare
one? Divil burn me if I thinks the likes of him is to be
found in all Ameriky, full as it is of Injins and saucy fellies!
Well, now, I suppose, sarjeant, ye've set me down
as sthriding off with Misther Joel and his likes, if ye was to
open yer heart, and spake yer thrue mind?”
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“You have been marked for a deserter, O'Hearn, and
one, too, that deserted from post.”
“Post! Had I been that, I shouldn't have stirred, and
ye'd be wanting in the news I bring ye from the Majjor,
and Mr. Woods, and the savages, and the rest of the varmints.”
“My son! — Is this possible, Michael? Have you seen
him, or can you tell us anything of his state?”
Mike now assumed a manner of mysterious importance,
laying a finger on his nose, and pointing towards the sentinel
and Jamie.
“It's the sarjeant that I considers as one of the family,”
said the county Leitrim-man, when his pantomime was
through, “but it isn't dacent to be bawling out sacrets
through a whole nighbourhood; and then, as for Ould
Nick — or Saucy Nick, or whatever ye calls him — Och!
isn't he a pratthy Injin! Ye'll mar-r-ch t'rough Ameriky,
and never see his aiquel!”
“This will never do, O'Hearn. Whatever you have to
say must be said clearly, and in the simplest manner. Follow
to the library, where I will hear your report. Joyce,
you will accompany us.”
“Let him come, if he wishes to hear wonderful achaivements!”
answered Mike, making way for the captain to
descend the steps; then following himself, talking as he
went. “He'll niver brag of his campaigns ag'in to the
likes of me, seeing that I've outdone him, ten — ay, forty
times, and boot. Och! that Nick's a divil, and no har-r-m
said!”
“In the first place, O'Hearn,” resumed the captain, as
soon as the three were alone in the library — “you must
explain your own desertion.”
“Me!—Desart! Sure, it isn't run away from yer honour,
and the Missus, and Miss Beuly, and pratthy Miss Maud,
and the child, that's yer honour's m'aning?”
This was said with so much nature and truth, that the
captain had not the heart to repeat the question, though
Joyce's more drilled feelings were less moved. The first even
felt a tear springing to his eye, and he no longer distrusted
the Irishman's fidelity, as unaccountable as his conduct did
and must seem to his cooler judgment. But Mike's
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sensitiveness had taken the alarm, and it was only to be appeased
by explanations.
“Yer honour's not sp'aking when I questions ye on that
same?” he resumed, doubtingly.
“Why, Mike, to be sincere, it did look a little suspicious
when you not only went off yourself, but you let the Indian
go off with you.”
“Did it?”—said Mike, musing—“No, I don't allow that,
seein' that the intent and object was good. And, then, I
never took the Injin wid me; but 'twas I, meself, that went
wid him.”
“I rather think, your honour,” said Joyce, smiling, “we'll
put O'Hearn's name in its old place on the roster, and make
no mark against him at pay-day.”
“I think it will turn out so, Joyce. We must have patience,
too, and let Mike tell his story in his own way.”
“Is it tell a story, will I? Ah!—Nick's the cr'ature for
that same! See, he has given me foor bits of sticks, every
one of which is to tell a story, in its own way. This is the
first; and it manes let the captain into the sacret of your
retrait; and how you got out of the windie, and how you
comes near to breaking yer neck by a fall becaase of the
fut's slipping; and how ye wint down the roof by a rope,
the divil a bit fastening it to yer neck, but houlding it in yer
hand with sich a grip as if 'twere the fait' of the church
itself; and how Nick led ye to the hole out of which ye
bot' wint, as if ye had been two cats going t'rough a door!”
Mike stopped to grin and look wise, as he recounted the
manner of the escape, the outlines of which, however, were
sufficiently well known to his auditors before he began.
“Throw away that stick, now, and let us know where
this hole is, and what you mean by it.”
“No”—answered Mike, looking at the stick, in a doubting
manner—“I'll not t'row it away, wid yer honour's l'ave,
'till I've told ye how we got into the brook, forenent the
forest, and waded up to the woods, where we was all the
same as if we had been two bits of clover tops hid in a haymow.
That Nick is a cr'ature at consailment!”
“Go on,” said the captain, patiently, knowing that there
was no use in hurrying one of Mike's peculiar mode of
communicating his thoughts. “What came next?”
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“That will I; and the r'ason comes next, as is seen by
this oder stick. And, so, Nick and meself was in the chaplain's
room all alone, and n'ither of us had any mind to
dhrink; Nick becaase he was a prisoner and felt crass, and
full of dignity like; and meself becaase I was a sentinel;
and sarjeant Joyce, there, had tould me, the Lord knows
how often, that if I did my duty well, I might come to be a
corporal, which was next in rank to himself; barring, too,
that I was a sentinel, and a drunken sentinel is a disgrace
to a man, sowl and body, and musket.”
“And so neither of you drank?”—put in the captain, by
way of a reminder.
“For that same r'ason, and one betther still, as we had
nothin' to dhrink. Well, says Nick — `Mike,' says he —
`you like cap'in, and Missus, and Miss Beuly, and Miss
Maud, and the babby?' `Divil burn ye, Nick,' says I, `why
do ye ask so foolish a question? Is it likes ye would know?
Well — then just ask yerself if you likes yer own kith and
kin, and ye've got yer answer.' ”
“And Nick made his proposal, on getting this answer,”
interrupted the captain, “which was—”
“Here it is, on the stick. `Well,' says Nick, says he—
`run away wid Nick, and see Majjor; bring back news.
Nick cap'in friend, but cap'in don't know it—won't believe'—
Fait', I can't tell yer honour all Nick said, in his own
manner; and so, wid yer l'ave, I'll just tell it in my own
way.”
“Any way, Mike, so that you do but tell it.”
“Nick 's a cr'ature! His idee was for us two to get out
of the windie, and up on the platform, and to take the bed-cord,
and other things, and slide down upon the ground —
and we did it! As sure as yer honour and the sarjeant is
there, we did that same, and no bones broke! `Well,' says
I, `Nick, ye're here, sure enough, but how do you mane to
get out of here? Is it climb the palisades ye will, and be
shot by a sentinel?'—if there was one, which there wasn't,
yer honour, seeing that all had run away—`or do ye mane
to stay here,' says I, `and be taken a prisoner of war ag'in,
in which case ye'll be two prisoners, seein' that ye've been
taken wonst already, will ye Nick?' says I. So Nick never
spoke, but he held up his finger, and made a sign for me to
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follow, as follow I did; and we just crept through the palisade,
and a mhighty phratty walk we had of it, alang the
meadies, and t'rough the lanes, the rest of the way.”
“You crept through the palisades, Mike! There is no
outlet of sufficient size.”
“I admits the hole is a tight squaze, but 'twill answer.
And then it's just as good for an inlet as it is for an outlet,
seein' that I came t'rough it this very marnin'. Och! Nick's
a cr'ature! And how d'ye think that hole comes there,
barring all oversights in setting up the sticks?”
“It has not been made intentionally, I should hope,
O'Hearn?”
“'Twas made by Joel, and that by just sawing off a post,
and forcin' out a pin or two, so that the palisade works
like a door. Och! it's nately contrived, and it manes mischief.”
“This must be looked to, at once,” cried the captain;
“lead the way, Mike, and show us the spot.”
As the Irishman was nothing loth, all three were soon in
the court, whence Mike led the way through the gate, round
to the point where the stockade came near the cliffs, on the
eastern side of the buildings. This was the spot where the
path that led down to the spring swept along the defences,
and was on the very route by which the captain contemplated
retreating, as well as on that by which Maud had
entered the Hut, the night of the invasion. At a convenient
place, a palisade had been sawed off, so low in the ground
that the sods, which had been cut and were moveable, concealed
the injury, while the heads of the pins that ought to
have bound the timber to the cross-piece, were in their holes,
leaving everything apparently secure. On removing the
sods, and pushing the timber aside, the captain ascertained
that a man might easily pass without the stockade. As this
corner was the most retired within the works, there was no
longer any doubt that the hole had been used by all the deserters,
including the women and children. In what manner
it became known to Nick, however, still remained matter
of conjecture.
Orders were about to be given to secure this passage,
when it occurred to the captain it might possibly be of use
in effecting his own retreat. With this object in view, then,
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he hastened away from the place, lest any wandering eye
without might detect his presence near it, and conjecture the
cause. On returning to the library, the examination of Mike
was resumed.
As the reader must be greatly puzzled with the county
Leitrim-man's manner of expressing himself, we shall relate
the substance of what he now uttered, for the sake of brevity.
It would seem that Nick had succeeded in persuading
Mike, first, that he, the Tuscarora, was a fast friend of the
captain and his family, confined by the former, in consequence
of a misconception of the real state of the Indian's
feelings, much to the detriment of all their interests; and
that no better service could be rendered the Willoughbys
than to let Nick depart, and for the Irishman to go with
him. Mike, however, had not the slightest idea of desertion,
the motive which prevailed on him to quit the Hut being a
desire to see the major, and, if possible, to help him escape.
As soon as this expectation was placed before his eyes, Mike
became a convert to the Indian's wishes. Like all exceedingly
zealous men, the Irishman had an itching propensity
to be doing, and he was filled with a sort of boyish delight
at the prospect of effecting a great service to those whom he
so well loved, without their knowing it. Such was the history
of Michael's seeming desertion; that of what occurred
after he quitted the works remains to be related.
The Tuscarora led his companion out of the Hut, within
half an hour after they had been left alone together, in the
room of Mr. Woods. As this was subsequently to Joel's
flight, Nick, in anticipation of this event, chose to lie in
ambush a short time, in order to ascertain whether the defection
was likely to go any further. Satisfied on this head,
he quietly retired towards the mill. After making a sufficient
dêtour to avoid being seen from the house, Nick gave himself
no trouble about getting into the woods, or of practising
any of the expedients of a time of real danger, as had been
done by all of the deserters; but he walked leisurely across
the meadows, until he struck the highway, along which he
proceeded forthwith to the rocks. All this was done in a
way that showed he felt himself at home, and that he had
no apprehensions of falling into an ambush. It might have
arisen from his familiarity with the ground; or, it might
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have proceeded from the consciousness that he was approaching
friends, instead of enemies.
At the rocks, however, Nick did not deem it wise to lead
Mike any further, without some preliminary caution. The
white man was concealed in one of the clefts, therefore,
while the Indian pursued his way alone. The latter was
absent an hour; at the end of that time he returned, and,
after giving Mike a great many cautions about silence and
prudence, he led him to the cabin of the miller, in the buttery
of which Robert Willoughby was confined. To this buttery
there was a window; but, as it was so small as to prevent
escape, no sentinel had been placed on the outside of the
building. For his own comfort, too, and in order to possess
his narrow lodgings to himself, the major had given a species
of parole, by which he was bound to remain in duresse,
until the rising of the next sun. Owing to these two causes,
Nick had been enabled to approach the window, and to hold
communications with the prisoner. This achieved, he returned
to the rocks, and led Mike to the same spot.
Major Willoughby had not been able to write much,
in consequence of the darkness. That which he communicated,
accordingly, had to pass through the fiery ordeal of
the Irishman's brains. As a matter of course it did not
come with particular lucidity, though Mike did succeed in
making his auditors comprehend this much.
The major was substantially well treated, though intimations
had been given that he would be considered as a spy.
Escape seemed next to impossible; still, he should not easily
abandon the hope. From all he had seen, the party was
one of that irresponsible character that would render capitulation
exceedingly hazardous, and he advised his father to
hold out to the last. In a military point of view, he considered
his captors as contemptible, being without a head;
though many of the men — the savages in particular — appeared
to be ferocious and reckless. The whole party was
guarded in discourse, and little was said in English, though
he was convinced that many more whites were present than
he had at first believed. Mr. Woods he had not seen, nor
did he know anything of his arrest or detention.
This much Mike succeeded in making the captain comprehend,
though a great deal was lost through the singular
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confusion that prevailed in the mind of the messenger. Mike,
however, had still another communication, which we reserve
for the ears of the person to whom it was especially sent.
This news produced a pause in captain Willoughby's determination.
Some of the fire of youth awoke within him,
and he debated with himself on the possibility of making a
sortie, and of liberating his son, as a step preliminary to
victory; or, at least, to a successful retreat. Acquainted
with every foot of the ground, which had singular facilities
for a step so bold, the project found favour in his eyes each
minute, and soon became fixed.
CHAPTER VIII.
—“Another love
In its lone woof began to twine;
But, ah! the golden thread was wove
That bound my sister's heart in mine!”
Willis.
While the captain and Joyce were digesting their plans,
Mike proceeded on an errand of peculiar delicacy with which
he had been entrusted by Robert Willoughby. The report
that he had returned flew through the dwellings, and many
were the hearty greetings and shakings of the hand that the
honest fellow had to undergo from the Plinys and Smashes,
ere he was at liberty to set about the execution of this trust.
The wenches, in particular, having ascertained that Mike
had not broken his fast, insisted on his having a comfortable
meal, in a sort of servants' hall, before they would consent
to his quitting their sight. As the county Leitrim-man was
singularly ready with a knife and fork, he made no very
determined opposition, and, in a few minutes, he was hard
at work, discussing a cold ham, with the other collaterals
of a substantial American breakfast.
The blacks, the Smashes inclusive, had been seriously
alarmed at the appearance of the invading party. Between
them and the whole family of red-men there existed a sort
of innate dislike; an antipathy that originated in colour, and
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wool, and habits, and was in no degree lessened by apprehensions
on the score of scalps.
“How you look, ole Plin, widout wool?” Big Smash had
reproachfully remarked, not five minutes before Mike made
his appearance in the kitchen, in answer to some apologetic
observation of her husband, as to the intentions of the
savages being less hostile than he had at first imagined;
“why you say dey no murder, and steal and set fire, when
you know dey's Injin! Natur' be natur'; and dat I hear
dominie Woods say t'ree time one Sunday. What'e dominie
say often, he mean, and dere no use in saying dey don't
come to do harm.”
As Great Smash was an oracle in her own set, there was
no gainsaying her dogmas, and Pliny the elder was obliged
to succumb. But the presence of Mike, one who was understood
to have been out, near, if not actually in, the enemy's
camp, and a great favourite in the bargain, was a circumstance
likely to revive the discourse. In fact, all the negroes
crowded into the hall, as soon as the Irishman was seated
at table, one or two eager to talk, the rest as eager to listen.
“How near you been to sabbage, Michael?” demanded
Big Smash, her two large coal-black eyes seeming to open
in a degree proportioned to her interest in the answer.
“I wint as nigh as there was occasion, Smash, and that
was nigher than the likes of yer husband there would be
thinking of travelling. Maybe 'twas as far as from my
plate here to you door; maybe not quite so far. They're
a dhirty set, and I wish to go no nearer.”
“What dey look like, in'e dark?” inquired Little Smash—
“Awful as by daylight?”
“It's not meself that stopped to admire'em. Nick and
I had our business forenent us, and when a man is hurried,
it isn't r'asonable to suppose he can kape turning his head
about to see sights.”
“What dey do wid Misser Woods?—What sabbage want
wid dominie?”
“Sure enough, little one; and the question is of yer own
asking. A praist, even though he should be only a heretic,
can have no great call for his sarvices, in sich a congregation.
And, I don't think the fellows are blackguards enough
to scalp a parson.”
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Then followed a flood of incoherent questions that were
put by all the blacks in a body, accompanied by divers looks
ominous of the most serious disasters, blended with bursts
of laughter that broke out of their risible natures in a way
to render the medley of sensations as ludicrous as it was
strange. Mike soon found answering a task too difficult to
be attempted, and he philosophically came to a determination
to confine his efforts to masticating.
Notwithstanding the terror that actually prevailed among
the blacks, it was not altogether unmixed with a resolution
to die with arms in their hands, in preference to yielding to
savage clemency. Hatred, in a measure, supplied the place
of courage, though both sexes had insensibly imbibed some
of that resolution which is the result of habit, and of which
a border life is certain to instil more or less into its subjects,
in a form suited to border emergencies. Nor was this feeling
confined to the men; the two Smashes, in particular,
being women capable of achieving acts that would be thought
heroic under circumstances likely to arouse their feelings.
“Now, Smashes,” said Mike, when, by his own calculation,
he had about three minutes to the termination of his
breakfast before him, “ye'll do what I tells ye, and no
questions asked. Ye'll find the laddies, Missus, and Miss
Beuly, and Miss Maud, and ye'll give my humble respects
to'em all—divil the bit, now, will ye be overlooking either
of the t'ree, but ye'll do yer errand genteely and like a
laddy yerself—and ye'll give my jewty and respects to'em
all, I tells ye, and say that Michael O'Hearn asks the honour
of being allowed to wish'em good morning.”
Little Smash screamed at this message; yet she went,
forthwith, and delivered it, making reasonably free with
Michael's manner and gallantry in so doing.
“O'Hearn has something to tell us from Robert” — said
Mrs. Willoughby, who had been made acquainted with the
Irishman's exploits and return; “he must be suffered to
come in as soon as he desires.”
With this reply, Little Smash terminated her mission.
“And now, laddies and gentlemen,” said Mike, with
gravity, as he rose to quit the servants' hall, “my blessing
and good wishes be wid ye. A hearty male have I had at
yer hands and yer cookery, and good thanks it desarves.
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As for the Injins, jist set yer hearts at rest, as not one of
ye will be scalp'd the day, seeing that the savages are all to
be forenent the mill this morning, houlding a great council,
as I knows from Nick himself. A comfortable time, then,
ye may all enjoy, wid yer heads on yer shoulters, and yer
wool on yer heads.”
Mike's grin, as he retreated, showed that he meant to be
facetious, having all the pleasantry that attends a full stomach
uppermost in his animal nature at that precise moment.
A shout rewarded this sally, and the parties separated with
mutual good humour and good feeling. In this state of
mind, the county Leitrim-man was ushered into the presence
of the ladies. A few words of preliminary explanations
were sufficient to put Mike in the proper train, when he
came at once to his subject.
“The majjor is no way down-hearted,” he said, “and he
ordered me to give his jewty and riverence, and obligations,
to his honoured mother and his sisters. `Tell'em, Mike,'
says he, says the majjor, `that I feels for'em, all the same
as if I was their own fader; and tell'em,' says he, `to keep
up their spirits, and all will come right in the ind. This is
a throublesome wor-r-ld, but they that does their jewties to
God and man, and the church, will not fail, in the long
run, to wor-r-k their way t'rough purgatory even, into paradise.”
'
“Surely my son — my dear Robert — never sent us such
a message as this, Michael?”
“Every syllable of it, and a quantity moor that has slipped
my memory,” answered the Irishman, who was inventing,
but who fancied he was committing a very pious fraud —
“'Twould have done the Missuses heart good to have listened
to the majjor, who spoke more in the charackter of a
praist, like, than in that of a souldier.”
All three of the ladies looked a little abashed, though
there was a gleam of humour about the mouth of Maud,
that showed she was not very far from appreciating the
Irishman's report at its just value. As for Mrs. Willoughby
and Beulah, less acquainted with Mike's habits, they did not
so readily penetrate his manner of substituting his own desultory
thoughts for the ideas of others.
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“As I am better acquainted with Mike's language, dear
mother” — whispered Maud — “perhaps it will be well if I
take him into the library and question him a little between
ourselves about what actually passed. Depend on it, I shall
get the truth.”
“Do, my child, for it really pains me to hear Robert so
much misrepresented — and, as Evert must now begin to
have ideas, I really do not like that his uncle should be so
placed before the dear little fellow's mind.”
Maud did not even smile at this proof of a grandmother's
weakness, though she felt and saw all its absurdity. Heart
was ever so much uppermost with the excellent matron,
that it was not easy for those she loved to regard anything
but her virtues; and least of all did her daughter presume
to indulge in even a thought that was ludicrous at her expense.
Profiting by the assent, therefore, Maud quietly
made a motion for Mike to follow, and proceeded at once to
the room she had named.
Not a word was exchanged between the parties until both
were in the library, when Maud carefully closed the door,
her face pale as marble, and stood looking inquiringly at her
companion. The reader will understand that, Mr. Woods and
Joyce excepted, not a soul at the Hut, out of the limits of
the Willoughby connection, knew anything of our heroine's
actual relation to the captain and his family. It is true,
some of the oldest of the blacks had once some vague notions
on the subject; but their recollections had become
obscured by time, and habit was truly second nature with
all of the light-hearted race.
“That was mighty injanious of you, Miss Maud!” Mike
commenced, giving one of his expressive grins again, and
fairly winking. “It shows how fri'nds wants no spache but
their own minds. Barrin' mistakes and crass-accidents, I'm
sartain that Michael O'Hearn can make himself understood
any day by Miss Maud Willoughby, an' niver a word said.”
“Your success then, Mike, will be greater at dumb-show
than it always is with your tongue,” answered the young
lady, the blood slowly returning to her cheek, the accidental
use of the name of Willoughby removing the apprehension
of anything immediately embarrassing; “what have you to
tell me that you suppose I have anticipated?”
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“Sure, the like o'yees needn't be tould, Miss Maud, that
the majjor bad me spake to ye by yerself, and say a word
that was not to be overheerd by any one else.”
“This is singular—extraordinary even—but let me know
more, though the messenger be altogether so much out
of the common way!”
“I t'ought ye'd say that, when ye come to know me. Is
it meself that's a messenger? and where is there another
that can carry news widout spilling any by the way? Nick's
a cr'ature, I allows; but the majjor know'd a million times
bhetter than to trust an Injin wid sich a jewty. As for Joel,
and that set of vagabonds, we'll grind'em all in the mill,
before we've done wid'em. Let'em look for no favours,
if they wishes no disapp'intment.”
Maud sickened at the thought of having any of those sacred
feelings connected with Robert Willoughby that she
had so long cherished in her inmost heart, rudely probed by
so unskilful a hand; though her last conversation with the
young soldier had told so much, even while it left so much
unsaid, that she could almost kneel and implore Mike to be
explicit. The reserve of a woman, notwithstanding, taught
her how to preserve her sex's decorum, and to maintain
appearances.
“If major Willoughby desired you to communicate anything
to me, in particular,” she said, with seeming composure,
“I am ready to hear it.”
“Divil the word did he desire, Miss Maud, for everything
was in whispers between us, but jist what I'm about to
repait. And here's my stick, that Nick tould me to kape
as a reminderer; it's far bhetter for me than a book, as I
can't read a syllable. `And now, Mike,' says the majjor,
says he, `conthrive to see phratty Miss Maud by herself—”
“Pretty Miss Maud!” interrupted the young lady, involuntarily.
“Och! it's meself that says that, and sure there's plenty
of r'ason for it; so we'll agree it's all right and proper—
“phratty Miss Maud by herself, letting no mortal else know
what you are about. That was the majjor's.”
“It is very extraordinary! — Perhaps it will be better,
Michael, if you tell me nothing but what is strictly the
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major's. A message should be delivered as nearly like the
words that were actually sent as possible.”
“Wor-r-ds! — And it isn't wor-r-ds at all, that I have to
give ye.”
“If not a message in words, in what else can it be? —
Not in sticks, surely.”
“In that”—cried Mike, exultingly—“and, I'll warrant,
when the trut' comes out, that very little bit of silver will be
found as good as forty Injin scalps.”
Although Mike put a small silver snuff-box that Maud at
once recognised as Robert Willoughby's property into the
young lady's hand, nothing was more apparent than the
circumstance that he was profoundly ignorant of the true
meaning of what he was doing. The box was very beautiful,
and his mother and Beulah had often laughed at the
major for using an article that was then deemed de rigueur
for a man of extreme ton, when all his friends knew he
never touched snuff. So far from using the stimulant,
indeed, he never would show how the box was opened, a
secret spring existing; and he even manifested or betrayed
shyness on the subject of suffering either of his sisters to
search for the means of doing so.
The moment Maud saw the box, her heart beat tumultuously.
She had a presentiment that her fate was about to
be decided. Still, she had sufficient self-command to make
an effort to learn all her companion had to communicate.
“Major Willoughby gave you this box,” she said, her
voice trembling in spite of herself. “Did he send any message
with it? Recollect yourself; the words may be very
important.”
“Is it the wor-r-ds? Well, it's little of them that passed
between us, barrin' that the Injins was so near by, that it
was whisper we did, and not a bit else.”
“Still there must have been some message.”
“Ye are as wise as a sarpent, Miss Maud, as Father
O'Loony used to tell us all of a Sunday! Was it wor-r-ds!—
`Give that to Miss Maud,' says the majjor, says he, `and
tell her she is now misthress of my sacret.”
“Did he say this, Michael? — For heaven's sake, be certain
of what you tell me.”
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“Irish Mike — Masser want you in monstrous hurry,”
cried the youngest of the three black men, thrusting his
glistening face into the door, announcing the object of the
intrusion, and disappearing almost in the same instant.
“Do not leave me, O'Hearn,” said Maud, nearly gasping
for breath, “do not leave me without an assurance there is
no mistake.”
“Divil bur-r-n me if I'd brought the box, or the message,
or anything like it, phretty Miss Maud, had I t'ought it would
have done this har-r-m.”
“Michael O'Hearn,” called the serjeant from the court,
in his most authoritative military manner, and that on a key
that would not brook denial.
Mike did not dare delay; in half a minute Maud found
herself standing alone, in the centre of the library, holding
the well-known snuff-box of Robert Willoughby in her little
hand. The renowned caskets of Portia had scarcely excited
more curiosity in their way than this little silver box of the
major's had created in the mind of Maud. In addition to his
playful evasions about letting her and Beulah pry into its
mysteries, he had once said to herself, in a grave and feeling
manner, “When you get at the contents of this box,
dear girl, you will learn the great secret of my life.” These
words had made a deep impression at the time — it was in
his visit of the past year — but they had been temporarily
forgotten in the variety of events and stronger sensations
that had succeeded. Mike's message, accompanied by the
box itself, however, recalled them, and Maud fancied that
the major, considering himself to be in some dangerous
emergency, had sent her the bauble in order that she might
learn what that secret was. Possibly he meant her to communicate
it to others. Persons in our heroine's situation
feel, more than they reason; and it is possible Maud might
have come to some other conclusion had she been at leisure,
or in a state of mind to examine all the circumstances in a
more logical manner.
Now she was in possession of this long-coveted box —
coveted at least so far as a look into its contents were concerned—
Maud not only found herself ignorant of the secret
by which it was opened, but she had scruples about using
the means, even had she been in possession of them. At
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first she thought of carrying the thing to Beulah, and of
asking if she knew any way of getting at the spring; then
she shrunk from the exposure that might possibly attend
such a step. The more she reflected, the more she felt convinced
that Robert Willoughby would not have sent her that
particular box, unless it were connected with herself, in
some way more than common; and ever since the conversation
in the painting-room she had seen glimmerings of the
truth, in relation to his feelings. These glimmerings too,
had aided her in better understanding her own heart, and all
her sentiments revolted at the thought of having a witness
to any explanation that might relate to the subject. In every
event she determined, after a few minutes of thought, not to
speak of the message, or the present, to a living soul.
In this condition of mind, filled with anxiety, pleasing
doubts, apprehensions, shame, and hope, all relieved, however,
by the secret consciousness of perfect innocence, and
motives that angels might avow, Maud stood, in the very
spot where Mike had left her, turning the box in her hands,
when accidentally she touched the spring, and the lid flew
open. To glance at the contents was an act so natural and
involuntary as to anticipate reflection.
Nothing was visible but a piece of white paper, neatly
folded, and compressed into the box in a way to fill its interior.
“Bob has written,” thought Maud — “Yet how
could he do this? He was in the dark, and had not pen or
paper!” Another look rendered this conjecture still more
improbable, as it showed the gilt edge of paper of the quality
used for notes, an article equally unlikely to be found in the
mill and in his own pocket. “Yet it must be a note,” passed
through her mind, “and of course it was written before he
left the Hut — quite likely before he arrived — possibly the
year before, when he spoke of the box as containing the
evidence of the great secret of his life.”
Maud now wished for Mike, incoherent, unintelligible,
and blundering as he was, that she might question him still
further as to the precise words of the message. “Possibly
Bob did not intend me to open the box at all,” she thought,
“and meant merely that I should keep it until he could
return to claim it. It contains a great secret; and, because
he wishes to keep this secret from the Indians, it does not
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follow that he intends to reveal it to me. I will shut the
box again, and guard his secret as I would one of my
own.”
This was no sooner thought than it was done. A pressure
of the lid closed it, and Maud heard the snap of the spring
with a start. Scarcely was the act performed ere she
repented it. “Bob would not have sent the box without
some particular object,” she went on to imagine; “and had
he intended it not to be opened, he would have told as much
to O'Hearn. How easy would it have been for him to say,
and for Mike to repeat, `tell her to keep the box till I ask
for it — it contains a secret, and I wish my captors not to
learn it.' No, he has sent the box with the design that I
should examine its contents. His very life may depend on
my doing so; yes, and on my doing so this minute!”
This last notion no sooner glanced athwart our heroine's
mind, than she began diligently to search for the hidden
spring. Perhaps curiosity had its influence on the eagerness
to arrive at the secret, which she now manifested; possibly
a tenderer and still more natural feeling lay concealed behind
it all. At any rate, her pretty little fingers never were
employed more nimbly, and not a part of the exterior of the
box escaped its pressure. Still, the secret spring eluded her
search. The box had two or three bands of richly chased
work on each side of the place of opening, and amid these
ornaments Maud felt certain that the little projection she
sought must lie concealed. To examine these, then, she
commenced in a regular and connected manner, resolved
that not a single raised point should be neglected. Accident,
however, as before, stood her friend; and, at a moment
when she least expected it, the lid flew back, once more
exposing the paper to view.
Maud had been too seriously alarmed about re-opening
the box, to hesitate a moment now, as to examining its contents.
The paper was removed, and she began to unfold it
slowly, a slight tremor passing through her frame as she
did so. For a single instant she paused to scent the delightful
and delicate perfume that seemed to render the interior
sacred; then her fingers resumed their office. At each instant,
her eyes expected to meet Robert Willoughby's well-known
hand-writing. But the folds of the paper opened on
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a blank. To Maud's surprise, and, for a single exquisitely
painful moment, she saw that a lock of hair was all the box
contained, besides the paper in which it was enveloped. Her
look became anxious, and her face pale; then the eyes
brightened, and a blush that might well be likened to the
tiats with which the approach of dawn illumines the sky,
suffused her cheeks, as, holding the hair to the light, the
long ringlets dropped at length, and she recognised one of
those beautiful tresses, of which so many were falling at
that very moment, in rich profusion around her own lovely
face. To unloosen her hair from the comb, and to lay the
secret of Bob Willoughby by its side, in a way to compare
the glossy shades, was the act of only a moment; it sufficed,
however, to bring a perfect conviction of the truth. It was a
memorial of herself, then, that Robert Willoughby so prized,
had so long guarded with care, and which he called the secret
of his life!
It was impossible for Maud not to understand all this.
Robert Willoughby loved her; he had taken this mode of
telling his passion. He had been on the point of doing this
in words the very day before; and now he availed himself
of the only means that offered of completing the tale. A
flood of tenderness gushed to the heart of Maud, as she
passed over all this in her mind; and, from that moment,
she ceased to feel shame at the recollection of her own attachment.
She might still have shrunk a little from avowing
it to her father, and mother, and Beulah; but, as to herself,
the world, and the object of her affections, she now stood
perfectly vindicated in her own eyes.
That was a precious half-hour which succeeded. For the
moment, all present dangers were lost sight of, in the glow
of future hopes. Maud's imagination portrayed scenes of
happiness, in which domestic duties, Bob beloved, almost
worshipped, and her father and mother happy in the felicity
of their children, were the prominent features; while Beulah
and little Evert filled the back-ground of the picture in colours
of pleasing softness. But these were illusions that
could not last for ever, the fearful realities of her situation
returning with the greater consciousness of existence. Still,
Bob might now be loved, without wounding any of the
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sensitiveness of her sex's opinions; and dearly, engrossingly,
passionately was he rewarded, for the manner in which he
had thought of letting her know the true state of his heart,
at a moment when he had so much reason to think only of
himself.
It was time for Maud to return to her mother and sister.
The box was carefully concealed, leaving the hair in its old
envelope, and she hurried to the nursery. On entering the
room, she found that her father had just preceded her. The
captain was grave, more thoughtful than usual, and his wife,
accustomed to study his countenance for so much of her
happiness, saw at once that something lay heavy on his
mind.
“Has anything out of the way happened, Hugh?” she
asked, “to give you uneasiness?”
Captain Willoughby drew a chair to the side of that of
his wife, seated himself, and took her hand before he answered.
Little Evert, who sat on her knee, was played
with, for a moment, as if to defer a disagreeable duty; not
till then did he even speak.
“You know, dearest Wilhelmina,” the captain finally
commenced, “that there have never been any concealments
between us, on the score of danger, even when I was a professed
soldier, and might be said to carry my life in my
hand.”
“You have ever found me reasonable, I trust, while feeling
like a woman, mindful of my duty as a wife?”
“I have, love; this is the reason I have always dealt
with you so frankly.”
“We understand each other, Hugh. Now tell me the
worst at once.”
“I am not certain you will think there is any worst about
it, Wilhelmina, as Bob's liberty is the object. I intend to
go out myself, at the head of all the white men that remain,
in order to deliver him from the hands of his enemies. This
will leave you, for a time — six or seven hours, perhaps —
in the Hut, with only the three blacks as a guard, and with
the females. You need have no apprehension of an assault,
however, everything indicating a different intention on the
part of our enemies; on that score you may set your hearts
at rest.”
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“All my apprehensions and prayers will be for you, my
husband — for ourselves, we care not.”
“This I expected; it is to lessen these very apprehensions
that I have come to tell you my whole plan.”
Captain Willoughby now related, with some minuteness,
the substance of Mike's report, and his own plan, of the
last of which we have already given an outline. Everything
had been well matured in his mind, and all promised
success. The men were apprised of the service on which
they were to be employed, and every one of them had manifested
the best spirit. They were then busy in equipping
themselves; in half an hour they would be ready to march.
To all this Mrs. Willoughby listened like a soldier's wife,
accustomed to the risks of a frontier warfare, though she
felt like a woman. Beulah pressed little Evert to her heart,
while her pallid countenance was turned to her father with
a look that seemed to devour every syllable. As for Maud,
a strange mixture of dread and wild delight were blended in
her bosom. To have Bob liberated, and restored to them,
was approaching perfect happiness, though it surpassed her
powers not to dread misfortunes. Nevertheless, the captain
was so clear in his explanations, so calm in his manner, and
of a judgment so approved, that his auditors felt far less
concern than might naturally have been expected.
CHAPTER IX.
“March—march—march!
Making sounds as they tread,
Ho-ho! how they step,
Going down to the dead.”
Coxe.
The time Maud consumed in her meditations over the
box and its contents, had been employed by the captain in
preparations for his enterprise. Joyce, young Blodget, Jamie
and Mike, led by their commander in person, were to compose
the whole force on the occasion; and every man had
been busy in getting his arms, ammunition and provisions
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ready, for the last half-hour. When captain Willoughby,
therefore, had taken leave of his family, he found the party
in a condition to move.
The first great desideratum was to quit the Hut unseen.
Joel and his followers were still at work, in distant fields;
but they all carefully avoided that side of the Knoll which
would have brought them within reach of the musket, and
this left all behind the cliff unobserved, unless Indians were
in the woods in that direction. As Mike had so recently
passed in by that route, however, the probability was the
whole party still remained in the neighbourhood of the mills,
where all accounts agreed in saying they mainly kept. It
was the intention of the captain, therefore, to sally by the
rivulet and the rear of the house, and to gain the woods
under cover of the bushes on the banks of the former, as
had already been done by so many since the inroad.
The great difficulty was to quit the house, and reach the
bed of the stream, unseen. This step, however, was a good
deal facilitated by means of Joel's sally-port, the overseer
having taken, himself, all the precautions against detection
of which the case well admitted. Nevertheless, there was
the distance between the palisades and the base of the rocks,
some forty or fifty yards, which was entirely uncovered,
and had to be passed under the notice of any wandering
eyes that might happen to be turned in that quarter. After
much reflection, the captain and serjeant came to the conclusion
to adopt the following mode of proceeding.
Blodget passed the hole, by himself, unarmed, rolling
down the declivity until he reached the stream. Here a
thicket concealed him sufficiently, the bushes extending
along the base of the rocks, following the curvature of the
rivulet. Once within these bushes, there was little danger
of detection. As soon as it was ascertained that the young
man was beneath the most eastern of the outer windows of
the northern wing, the only one of the entire range that had
bushes directly under it, all the rifles were lowered down to
him, two at a time, care being had that no one should appear
at the window during the operation. This was easily
effected, jerks of the rope sufficing for the necessary signals
when to haul in the line. The ammunition succeeded; and,
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in this manner, all the materials of offence and defence
were soon collected on the margin of the stream.
The next step was to send the men out, one by one,
imitating the precautions taken by Blodget. Each individual
had his own provisions, and most of the men carried some
sort of arms, such as a pistol, or a knife, about his person.
In half an hour the four men were armed, and waited
for the leader, concealed by the bushes on the border of the
brook. It only remained for captain Willoughby to give
some instructions to those he left in the Hut, and to follow.
Pliny the elder, in virtue of his years, and some experience
in Indian warfare, succeeded to the command of the
garrison, in the absence of its chief. Had there remained a
male white at the Knoll, this trust never could have devolved
on him, it being thought contrary to the laws of nature for
a negro to command one of the other colour; but such was
not the fact, and Pliny the elder succeeded pretty much as
a matter of course. Notwithstanding, he was to obey not
only his particular old mistress, but both his young mistresses,
who exercised an authority over him that was not
to be disputed, without doing violence to all the received
notions of the day. To him, then, the captain issued his
final orders, bidding him be vigilant, and above all to keep
the gates closed.
As soon as this was done, the husband and father went
to his wife and children to take a last embrace. Anxious
not to excite too strong apprehensions by his manner, this
was done affectionately—solemnly, perhaps—but with a
manner so guarded as to effect his object.
“I shall look for no other signal, or sign of success,
Hugh,” said the weeping wife, “than your own return, accompanied
by our dearest boy. When I can hold you both
in my arms, I shall be happy, though all the Indians of the
continent were in the valley.”
“Do not miscalculate as to time, Wilhelmina. That
affectionate heart of yours sometimes travels over time and
space in a way to give its owner unnecessary pain. Remember
we shall have to proceed with great caution, both
in going and returning; and it will require hours to make
the detour I have in view. I hope to see you again before
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sunset, but a delay may carry us into the night. It may
even become necessary to defer the final push until after
dark.”
This was melancholy intelligence for the females; but
they listened to it with calmness, and endeavoured to be, as
well as to seem, resigned. Beulah received her father's
kiss and blessing with streaming eyes, straining little Evert
to her heart as he left her. Maud was the last embraced.
He even led her, by gentle violence, to the court, keeping
her in discourse by the way, exhorting her to support her
mother's spirits by her own sense and steadiness.
“I shall have Bob in the Hut, soon,” he added, “and
this will repay us all for more than twice the risks—all but
you, little vixen; for your mother tells me you are getting,
through some caprice of that variable humour of your sex,
to be a little estranged from the poor fellow.”
“Father!”
“O! I know it is not very serious; still, even Beulah
tells me you once called him a Major of Foot.”
“Did I?” said Maud, trembling in her whole frame lest
her secret had been prematurely betrayed by the very attempt
to conceal it. “My tongue is not always my heart.”
“I know it, darling, unless where I am concerned. Treat
the son as you will, Maud, I am certain that you will always
love the father.” A pressure to the heart, and kisses on
the forehead, eyes, and cheeks followed. “You have all
your own papers, Maud, and can easily understand your
own affairs. When examined into, it will be seen that
every shilling of your fortune has gone to increase it; and,
little hussy, you are now become something like a great
heiress.”
“What does this mean, dearest, dearest father? Your
words frighten me!”
“They should not, love. Danger is never increased by
being prepared to meet it. I have been a steward, and
wish it to be known that the duty has not been unfaithfully
discharged. That is all. A hundred-fold am I repaid
by possessing so dutiful and sweet a child.”
Maud fell on her father's bosom and sobbed. Never
before had he made so plain allusions to the true relations
which existed between them; the papers she possessed
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having spoken for themselves, and having been given in silence.
Nevertheless, as he appeared disposed to proceed no further,
at present, the poor girl struggled to command herself, succeeded
in part, rose, received her father's benediction, most
solemnly and tenderly delivered, and saw him depart, with
an air of calmness that subsequently astonished even herself.
We must now quit the interesting group that was left
behind in the Hut, and accompany the adventurers in their
march.
Captain Willoughby was obliged to imitate his men, in
the mode of quitting the palisades. He had dressed himself
in the American hunting-shirt and trowsers for the occasion;
and, this being an attire he now rarely used, it greatly
diminished the chances of his being recognised, if seen.
Joyce was in a similar garb, though neither Jamie nor Mike
could ever be persuaded to assume a style that both insisted
so much resembled that of the Indians. As for Blodget, he
was in the usual dress of a labourer.
As soon as he had reached the bottom of the cliff, the
captain let the fact be known to Old Pliny, by using his
voice with caution, though sufficiently loud to be heard on the
staging of the roof, directly above his head. The black had
been instructed to watch Joel and his companions, in order
to ascertain if they betrayed, in their movements, any consciousness
of what was in progress at the Hut. The report
was favourable, Pliny assuring his master that “all 'e men
work, sir, just as afore. Joel hammer away at plough-handle,
tinkerin' just like heself. Not an eye turn dis away,
massa.”
Encouraged by this assurance, the whole party stole
through the bushes, that lined this part of the base of the
cliffs, until they entered the bed of the stream. It was
September, and the water was so low, as to enable the party
to move along the margin of the rivulet dry-shod, occasionally
stepping from stone to stone. The latter expedient,
indeed, was adopted wherever circumstances allowed, with
a view to leave as few traces of a trail as was practicable.
Otherwise the cover was complete; the winding of the rivulet
preventing any distant view through its little reaches,
and the thick fringe of the bushes on each bank, effectually
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concealing the men against any passing, lateral, glimpse of
their movements.
Captain Willoughby had, from the first, apprehended an
assault from this quarter. The house, in its elevation, however,
possessed an advantage that would not be enjoyed by
an enemy on the ground; and, then, the cliff offered very
serious obstacles to anything like a surprise on that portion
of the defences. Notwithstanding, he now led his men,
keeping a look riveted on the narrow lane in his front, far
from certain that each turn might not bring him in presence
of an advancing party of the enemy. No such unpleasant
encounter occurred; and the margin of the forest was
gained, without any appearance of the foe, and seemingly
without discovery.
Just within the cover of the woods, a short reach of the
rivulet lay fairly in sight, from the rear wing of the dwellings.
It formed a beautiful object in the view; the ardent
and tasteful Maud having sketched the silvery ribbon of
water, as it was seen retiring within the recesses of the
forest, and often calling upon others to admire its loveliness
and picturesque effect. Here the captain halted, and made
a signal to Old Pliny, to let him know he waited for an
answer. The reply was favourable, the negro showing the
sign that all was still well. This was no sooner done,
than the faithful old black hurried down to his mistress, to
communicate the intelligence that the party was safely in
the forest; while the adventurers turned, ascended the bank
of the stream, and pursued their way on more solid ground.
Captain Willoughby and his men were now fairly engaged
in the expedition, and every soul of them felt the
importance and gravity of the duty he was on. Even Mike
was fain to obey the order to be silent, as the sound of a
voice, indiscreetly used, might betray the passage of the
party to some outlying scouts of the enemy. Caution was
even used in treading on dried sticks, lest their cracking
should produce the same effect.
The sound of the axe was heard in the rear of the cabins,
coming from a piece of woodland the captain had ordered
cleared, with the double view of obtaining fuel, and of increasing
his orchards. This little clearing was near a quarter
of a mile from the flats, the plan being, still to retain a
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belt of forest round the latter; and it might have covered
half-a-dozen acres of land, having now been used four or
five years for the same purpose. To pass between this
clearing and the cabins would have been too hazardous, and
it became necessary to direct the march in a way to turn
the former.
The cow-paths answered as guides for quite a mile, Mike
being thoroughly acquainted with all their sinuosities. The
captain and serjeant, however, each carried a pocket compass,
an instrument without which few ventured far into the
forests. Then the blows of the axes served as sounds to
let the adventurers know their relative position, and, as they
circled the place whence they issued, they gave the constant
assurance of their own progress, and probable security.
The reader will probably comprehend the nature of the
ground over which our party was now marching. The
`flats' proper, or the site of the old Beaver Dam, have
already been described. The valley, towards the south, terminated
at the rocks of the mill, changing its character below
that point, to a glen, or vast ravine. On the east were
mountains of considerable height, and of unlimited range;
to the north, the level land extended miles, though on a platform
many feet higher than the level of the cleared meadows;
while, to the west, along the route the adventurers
were marching, broad slopes of rolling forest spread their
richly-wooded surfaces, filled with fair promise for the future.
The highest swell of this undulating forest was that
nearest to the Hut, and it was its elevation only that gave
the home-scene the character of a valley.
Captain Willoughby's object was to gain the summit of
this first ridge of land, which would serve as a guide to his
object, since it terminated at the line of rocks that made the
waterfall, quite a mile, however, in the rear of the mills.
It would carry him also quite beyond the clearing of the
wood-choppers, and be effectually turning the whole of the
enemy's position. Once at the precipitous termination
caused by the face of rock that had been thrown to the surface
by some geological phenomenon, he could not miss his
way, since these rugged marks must of themselves lead him
directly to the station known to be occupied by the body of
his foes.
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Half an hour served to reach the desired ridge, when the
party changed its march, pursuing a direction nearly south,
along its summit.
“Those axes sound nearer and nearer, serjeant,” Captain
Willoughby observed, after the march had lasted a long
time in profound silence. “We must be coming up near
the point where the men are at work.”
“Does your honour reflect at all on the reason why
these fellows are so particularly industrious in a time like
this? — To me it has a very ambuscadish sort of look!”
“It cannot be connected with an ambuscade, Joyce, inasmuch
as we are not supposed to be on a march. There
can be no ambuscade, you will remember, practised on a
garrison.”
“I ask your honour's pardon — may not a sortie be ambushed,
as well as a march?”
“In that sense, perhaps, you may be right. And, now
you mention it, I think it odd there should be so much industry
at wood-chopping, in a moment like this. We will
halt as soon as the sounds are fairly abreast of us, when
you and I can reconnoitre the men, and ascertain the appearance
of things for ourselves.”
“I remember, sir, when your honour led out two companies
of ours, with one of the Royal Irish, a major's command,
of good rights, to observe the left flank of the French, the
evening before we stormed the enemy's works at Ty—”
“Your memory is beginning to fail you, Joyce,” interrupted
the captain, smiling. “We were far from storming
those works, having lost two thousand men before them, and
failed of seeing their inside at all.”
“I always look upon a soldierly attempt, your honour,
the same as a thing that is done. A more gallant stand
than we made I never witnessed; and, though we were
driven back, I will allow, yet I call that assault as good as
storming!”
“Well, have it your own way, Joyce. — The morning
before your storming, I remember to have led out three
companies; though it was more in advance, than on either
flank. The object was to unmask a suspected ambush.”
“That's just what I wanted to be at, your honour. The
general sent you, as an old captain, with three companies,
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to spring the trap, before he should put his own foot
into it.”
“He certainly did — and the movement had the desired
effect.”
“Better and better, sir. — I remember we were fired on,
and lost some ten or fifteen men, but I would not presume
to say whether the march succeeded or not; for nothing
was said of the affair, next day, in general orders, sir—”
“Next day we had other matters to occupy our minds.
It was a bloody and a mournful occasion for England and
her colonies.”
“Well, your honour, that does not affect our movement,
which, you say, yourself, was useful.”
“Very true, Joyce, though the great calamity of the succeeding
day prevented the little success of the preceding
morning from being mentioned in general orders. But to
what does all this tend; as I know it must lead to something?”
“It was merely meant as a respectful hint, your honour,
that the inferior should be sent out, now, according to our
own ancient rules, to reconn'itre the clearing, while the
commander-in-chief remain with the main body, to cover the
retreat.”
“I thank you, serjeant, and shall not fail to employ you,
on all proper occasions. At present, it is my intention that
we go together, leaving the men to take breath, in a suitable
cover.”
This satisfied Joyce, who was content to wait for orders.
As soon as the sounds of the axes showed that the party
were far enough in advance, and the formation of the land
assured the captain that he was precisely where he wished
to be, the men were halted, and left secreted in a cover
made by the top of a fallen tree. This precaution was
taken, lest any wandering savage might get a glimpse of
their persons, if they stood lounging about in the more open
forest, during the captain's absence.
This disposition made, the captain and serjeant, first examining
the priming of their pieces, moved with the necessary
caution towards the edge of the wood-chopper's clearing.
The axe was a sufficient guide, and ere they had proceeded
far the light began to shine through the trees, proof
in itself that they were approaching an opening in the forest.
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“Let us incline to the left, your honour,” said Joyce, respectfully;
“there is a naked rock hereabouts, that completely
overlooks the clearing, and where we can get even
a peep at the Hut. I have often sat on it, when out with
the gun, and wearied; for the next thing to being at home,
is to see home.”
“I remember the place, serjeant, and like your suggestion,”
answered the captain, with an eagerness that it was
very unusual for him to betray. “I could march with a
lighter heart, after getting another look at the Knoll, and
being certain of its security.”
The parties being both of a mind, it is not surprising
that each looked eagerly for the spot in question. It was
an isolated rock that rose some fifteen or twenty feet above
the surface of the ground, having a width and depth about
double its height—one of those common excrescences of
the forest that usually possess interest for no one but the
geologist. Such an object was not difficult to find in an
open wood, and the search was soon rewarded by a discovery.
Bending their steps that way, our two soldiers
were quickly at its base. As is usual, the summit of this
fragment of rock was covered with bushes; others shooting
out, also, from the rich, warm earth at its base, or, to speak
more properly, at its junction with the earth.
Joyce ascended first, leaving his rifle in the captain's
charge. The latter followed, after having passed up his
own and his companion's arms; neither being disposed to
stir without having these important auxiliaries at command.
Once on the rock, both moved cautiously to its eastern brow,
care being had not to go beyond the cover. Here they
stood, side by side, gazing on the scene that was outspread
before them, through openings in the bushes.
To the captain's astonishment, he found himself within
half musket shot of the bulk of the hostile party. A regular
bivouac had been formed round a spring in the centre
of the clearing, and bodies of trees had been thrown together,
so as to form a species of work which was rudely,
but effectually abbatied by the branches. In a word, one
of those strong, rough forest encampments had been made,
which are so difficult to carry without artillery, more especially
if well defended. By being placed in the centre of
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the clearing, an assault could not be made without exposing
the assailants, and the spring always assured to the garrison
the great requisite, water.
There was a method and order in this arrangement that
surprised both our old soldiers. That Indians had resorted
to this expedient, neither believed; nor would the careless,
untaught and inexperienced whites of the Mohawk be apt to
adopt it, without a suggestion from some person acquainted
with the usages of frontier warfare. Such persons were not
difficult to find, it is true; and it was a proof that those
claiming to be in authority, rightfully or not, were present.
There was something unlooked for, also, in the manner
in which the party of strangers were lounging about, at a
moment like that, seemingly doing nothing, or preparing
for no service. Joyce, who was a man of method, and was
accustomed to telling off troops, counted no less than forty-nine
of these idlers, most of whom were lounging near the
log entrenchment, though a few were sauntering about the
clearing, conversing with the wood-choppers, or making
their observations listlessly, and seemingly without any
precise object in view.
“This is the most extr'ornary sight, for a military expedition,
I have ever seen, your honour,” whispered Joyce,
after the two had stood examining the position for quite a
minute in silence. “A tolerable good log breast-work, I
will allow, sir, and men enough to make it good against a
sharp assault; but nothing like a guard, and not so much
as a single sentinel. This is an affront to the art, Captain
Willoughby; and it is such an affront to us, that I feel certain
we might carry the post by surprise, if all felt the insult
as I do myself.”
“This is no time for rash acts or excited feelings, Joyce.
Though, were my gallant boy with us, I do think we might
make a push at these fellows, with very reasonable chances
of success.”
“Yes, your honour, and without him, too. A close fire,
three cheers, and a vigorous charge would drive every one
of the rascals into the woods!”
“Where they would rally, become the assailants in their
turn, surround us, and either compel us to surrender, or
starve us out. At all events, nothing of the sort must be
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undertaken until we have carried out the plan for the rescue
of Major Willoughby. My hopes of success are greatly
increased since I find the enemy has his principal post up
here, where he must be a long half-mile from the mill, even
in a straight line. You have counted the enemy?”
“There are just forty-nine of them in sight, and I should
think some eight or ten more sleeping about under the logs,
as I occasionally discover a new one raising his head.—
Look, sir, does your honour see that manœuvre?”
“Do I see what, serjeant?—There is no visible change
that I discover.”
“Only an Indian chopping wood, Captain Willoughby,
which is some such miracle as a white man painting.”
The reader will have understood that all the hostile party
that was lounging about this clearing were in Indian guise,
with faces and hands of the well-known reddish colour that
marks the American aborigines. The two soldiers could
discover many evidences that there was deception in these
appearances, though they thought it quite probable that
real red men were mingled with the pale-faces. But, so little
did the invaders respect the necessity of appearances in
their present position, that one of these seeming savages had
actually mounted a log, taken the axe from the hands of
its owner, and begun to chop, with a vigour and skill that
soon threw off chips in a way that no man can successfully
imitate but the expert axe-man of the American
interior.
“Pretty well that, sir, for a red-skin,” said Joyce, smiling.
“If there isn't white blood, ay, and Yankee blood in that
chap's arm, I'll give him some of my own to help colour it.
Step this way, your honour—only a foot or two—there,
sir; by looking through the opening just above the spot
where that very make-believe Injin is scattering his chips
as if they were so many kernels of corn that he was tossing
to the chickens, you will get a sight of the Hut.”
The fact was so. By altering his own position a little on
the rock, Captain Willoughby got a full view of the entire
buildings of the Knoll. It is true, he could not see the lawn
without the works, nor quite all of the stockade, but the
whole of the western wing, or an entire side-view of the
dwellings, was obtained. Everything seemed as tranquil
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and secure, in and around them, as if they vegetated in a
sabbath in the wilderness. There was something imposing
even, in the solemn silence of their air, and the captain now
saw that if he had been struck, and rendered uneasy by the
mystery that accompanied the inaction and quiet of his invaders,
they, in their turns, might experience some such
sensations as they gazed on the repose of the Hut, and the
apparent security of its garrison. But for Joel's desertion,
indeed, and the information he had carried with him, there
could be little doubt that the stranger must have felt the influence
of such doubts to a very material extent. Alas! as
things were, it was not probable they could be long imposed
on, by any seeming calm.
Captain Willoughby felt a reluctance to tear himself away
from the spectacle of that dwelling which contained so many
that were dear to him. Even Joyce gazed at the house
with pleasure, for it had been his quarters, now, so many
years, and he had looked forward to the time when he
should breathe his last in it. Connected with his old commander
by a tie that was inseparable, so far as human
wishes could control human events, it was impossible that
the serjeant could go from the place where they had left so
many precious beings almost in the keeping of Providence,
at a moment like that, altogether without emotion. While
each was thus occupied in mind, there was a perfect stillness.
The men of the party had been so far drilled, as to
speak in low voices, and nothing they said was audible on
the rock. The axes alone broke the silence of the woods,
and to ears so accustomed to their blows, they offered no
intrusion. In the midst of this eloquent calm, the bushes
of the rock rustled, as it might be with the passage of a
squirrel, or a serpent. Of the last the country had but few,
and they of the most innocent kind, while the former
abounded. Captain Willoughby turned, expecting to see
one of these little restless beings, when his gaze encountered
a swarthy face, and two glowing eyes, almost within reach
of his arm. That this was a real Indian was beyond dispute,
and the crisis admitting of no delay, the old officer
drew a dirk, and had already raised his arm to strike, when
Joyce arrested the blow.
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“This is Nick, your honour;” said the serjeant, inquiringly—
“is he friend, or foe?”
“What says he himself?” answered the captain, lowering
his hand in doubt. “Let him speak to his own character.”
Nick now advanced and stood calmly and fearlessly at
the side of the two white men. Still there was ferocity in
his look, and an indecision in his movements. He certainly
might betray the adventurers at any instant, and they
felt all the insecurity of their situation. But accident had
brought Nick directly in front of the opening through which
was obtained the view of the Hut. In turning from one to
the other of the two soldiers, his quick eye took in this
glimpse of the buildings, and it became riveted there as by
the charm of fascination. Gradually the ferocity left his
countenance, which grew human and soft.
“Squaw in wigwam”—said the Tuscarora, throwing forward
a hand with its fore-finger pointing towards the house.
“Ole squaw—young squaw. Good. Wyandotté sick, she
cure him. Blood in Injin body; thick blood—nebber forget
good—nebber forget bad.”
CHAPTER X.
“Every stride—every stamp,
Every footfall is bolder;
'T is a skeleton's tramp,
With a skull on its shoulder!
But ho, how he steps
With a high-tossing head,
That clay-covered bone,
Going down to the dead!”
Coxe.
Nick's countenance was a fair index to his mind; nor
were his words intended to deceive. Never did Wyandott
é forget the good, or evil, that was done him. After
looking intently, a short time, at the Hut, he turned and
abruptly demanded of his companions,—
“Why come here? Like to see enemy between you
and wigwam?”
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As all Nick said was uttered in a guarded tone, as if he
fully entered into the necessity of remaining concealed from
those who were in such a dangerous vicinity, it served to inspire
confidence, inducing the two soldiers to believe him
disposed to serve them.
“Am I to trust in you as a friend?” demanded the captain,
looking the Indian steadily in the eye.
“Why won't trust? Nick no hero—gone away—Nick
nebber come ag'in—Wyandotté hero—who no trust Wyandott
é? Yengeese always trust great chief.”
“I shall take you at your word, Wyandotté, and tell you
everything, hoping to make an ally of you. But, first explain
to me, why you left the Hut, last night—friends do
not desert friends.”
“Why leave wigwam?—Because wanted to. Wyandotté
come when he want; go when he want. Nick go too.—
Went to see son—come back; tell story; eh?”
“Yes, it has happened much as you say, and I am willing
to think it all occurred with the best motives. Can you
tell me anything of Joel, and the others who have left me?”
“Why tell?—Cap'in look; he see. Some chop—some
plough—some weed—some dig ditch. All like ole time.
Bury hatchet—tired of war-path—why cap'in ask?”
“I see all you tell me. You know, then, that those fellows
have made friends with the hostile party?”
“No need know—see. Look—Injin chop, pale-face look
on! Call that war?”
“I do see that which satisfies me the men in paint yonder
are not all red men.”
“No—cap'in right—tell him so at wigwam. But dat
Mohawk—dog—rascal—Nick's enemy!”
This was said with a gleam of fierceness shooting across
the swarthy face, and a menacing gesture of the hand, in
the direction of a real savage who was standing indolently
leaning against a tree, at a distance so small as to allow
those on the rock to distinguish his features. The vacant
expression of this man's countenance plainly denoted that
he was totally unconscious of the vicinity of danger. It
expressed the listless vacancy of an Indian in a state of
perfect rest—his stomach full, his body at ease, his mind
peaceful.
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“I thought Nick was not here,” the captain quietly observed,
smiling on the Tuscarora a little ironically.
“Cap'in right—Nick no here. Well for dog 'tis so. Too
mean for Wyandotté to touch. What cap'in come for?
Eh! Better tell chief—get council widout lightin' fire.”
“As I see no use in concealing my plan from you, Wyandott
é,”—Nick seemed pleased whenever this name was
pronounced by others—“I shall tell it you, freely. Still,
you have more to relate to me. Why are you here?—And
how came you to discover us?”
“Follow trail—know cap'in foot—know serjeant foot—
know Mike foot—see so many foot, follow him. Leave so
many” holding up three fingers “in bushes—so many”
holding up two fingers “come here. Foot tell which come
here—Wyandotté chief—he follow chief.”
“When did you first strike, or see our trail, Tuscarora?”
“Up here—down yonder—over dere.” Captain Willoughby
understood this to mean, that the Indian had crossed
the trail, or seen it in several places. “Plenty trail; plenty
foot to tell all about it. Wyandotté see foot of friend—
why he don't follow, eh?”
“I hope this is all so, old warrior, and that you will prove
yourself a friend indeed. We are out in the hope of liberating
my son, and we came here to see what our enemies
are about.”
The Tuscarora's eyes were like two inquisitors, as he
listened; but he seemed satisfied that the truth was told him.
Assuming an air of interest, he inquired if the captain knew
where the major was confined. A few words explained
everything, and the parties soon understood each other.
“Cap'in right,” observed Nick. “Son in cupboard still;
but plenty warrior near, to keep eye on him.”
“You know his position, Wyandotté, and can aid us
materially, if you will. What say you, chief; will you
take service, once more, under your old commander?”
“Who he sarve—King George—Congress—eh?”
“Neither. I am neutral, Tuscarora, in the present quarrel.
I only defend myself, and the rights which the laws
assure to me, let whichever party govern, that may.”
“Dat bad. Nebber neutral in hot war. Get rob from
bot' side. Alway be one or t' oder, cap'in.”
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“You may be right, Nicholas, but a conscientious man
may think neither wholly right, nor wholly wrong. I wish
never to lift the hatchet, unless my quarrel be just.”
“Injin no understand dat. Throw hatchet at enemy —
what matter what he say—good t'ing, bad t'ing. He enemy—
dat enough. Take scalp from enemy —don't touch
friend.”
“That may do for your mode of warfare, Tuscarora, but
it will hardly do for mine. I must feel that I have right of
my side, before I am willing to take life.”
“Cap'in always talk so, eh? When he soldier, and general
say shoot ten, forty, t'ousand Frenchmen, den he say;
`stop, general — no hurry — let cap'in t'ink.' Bye-'m-by
he'll go and take scalp; eh!”
It exceeded our old soldier's self-command not to permit
the blood to rush into his face, at this home-thrust; for he
felt the cunning of the Indian had involved him in a seeming
contradiction.
“That was when I was in the army, Wyandotté,” he
answered, notwithstanding his confusion, “when my first,
and highest duty, was to obey the orders of my superiors.
Then I acted as a soldier; now, I hope to act as a man.”
“Well, Indian chief alway in army. Always high duty,
and obey superior — obey Manitou, and take scalp from
enemy. War-path alway open, when enemy at t' other
end.”
“This is no place to discuss such questions, chief; nor
have we the time. Do you go with us?”
Nick nodded an assent, and signed for the other to
quit the rocks. The captain hesitated a moment, during
which he stood intently studying the scene in the clearing.
“What say you, Tuscarora; the serjeant has proposed
assaulting that breast-work?”
“No good, cap'in. You fire, halloo, rush on—well, kill
four, six, two — rest run away. Injin down at mill hear
rifle; follow smoke—where major, den? Get major, first—
t'ink about enemy afterwards.
As Nick said this, he repeated the gesture to descend;
and he was obeyed in silence. The captain now led the
way back to his party; and soon rejoined it. All were glad
to see Nick, for he was known to have a sure rifle; to be
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fearless as the turkey-cock; and to possess a sagacity in
the woods, that frequently amounted to a species of intuition.
“Who lead, cap'in or Injin?” asked the Tuscarora, in
his sententious manner.
“Och, Nick, ye're a cr'ature!” muttered Mike. “Divil
bur-r-rn me, Jamie, but I t'inks the fallie would crass the
very three-tops, rather than miss the majjor's habitation.”
“Not a syllable must be uttered,” said the captain, raising
a hand in remonstrance. “I will lead, and Wyandotté will
march by my side, and give me his council, in whispers.
Joyce will bring up the rear. Blodget, you will keep a sharp
look-out to the left, while Jamie will do the same to the
right. As we approach the mills, stragglers may be met in
the woods, and our march must be conducted with the
greatest caution. Now follow, and be silent.”
The captain and Nick led, and the whole party followed,
observing the silence which had been enjoined on them.
The usual manner of marching on a war-path, in the woods,
was for the men to follow each other singly; an order that
has obtained the name of `Indian file,' the object being to
diminish the trail, and conceal the force of the expedition,
by each man treading in his leader's footsteps. On the
present occasion, however, the captain induced Nick to
walk at his side, feeling an uneasiness on the subject of the
Tuscarora's fidelity that he could not entirely conquer. The
pretext given was very different, as the reader will suppose.
By seeing the print of a moccasin in company with that of
a boot, any straggler that crossed the trail might be led to
suppose it had been left by the passage of a party from the
clearing or the mill. Nick quietly assented to this reasoning,
and fell in by the side of the captain without remonstrance.
Vigilant eyes were kept on all sides of the line of march,
though it was hoped and believed that the adventurers had
struck upon a route too far west to be exposed to interruption.
A quarter of a mile nearer to the flats might have
brought them within the range of stragglers; but, following
the summit of the ridge, there was a certain security in the
indolence which would be apt to prevent mere idlers from
sauntering up an ascent. At all events, no interruption
occurred, the party reaching in safety the rocks that were
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a continuation of the range which formed the precipice at
the falls—the sign that they had gone far enough to the
south. At this period, the precipice was nearly lost in the
rising of the lower land, but its margin was sufficiently distinct
to form a good mask.
Descending to the plateau beneath, the captain and Nick
now inclined to the east, the intention being to come in upon
the mills from the rear. As the buildings lay in the ravine,
this could only be done by making a rapid descent immediately
in their vicinity; a formation of the ground that
rendered the march, until within pistol-shot of its termination,
reasonably secure. Nick also assured his companions
that he had several times traversed this very plateau, and
that he had met no signs of footsteps on it; from which he
inferred that the invaders had not taken the trouble to
ascend the rugged cliffs that bounded the western side of
the glen.
The approach to the summit of the cliff was made with
caution, though the left flank of the adventurers was well
protected by the abrupt descent they had already made
from the terrace above. This left little more than the right
flank and the front to be watched, the falling away of the
land forming, also, a species of cover for the rear. It is
not surprising, then, that the verge of the ravine or glen
was attained, and no discovery was made. The spot being
favourable, the captain immediately led down a winding
path, that was densely fringed with bushes, towards the
level of the buildings.
The glen of the mills was very narrow; so much so, as
barely to leave sites for the buildings themselves, and three
or four cabins for the workmen. The mills were placed
in advance, as near as possible to the course of the water;
while the habitations of the workmen were perched on
shelves of the rocks, or such level bits of bottom-land as
offered. Owing to this last circumstance, the house of
Daniel the miller, or that in which it was supposed the
major was still confined, stood by itself, and fortunately, at
the very foot of the path by which the adventurers were
descending. All this was favourable, and had been taken
into the account as a material advantage, by Captain
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Willoughby when he originally conceived the plan of the present
sortie.
When the chimney of the cabin was visible over the
bushes, Captain Willoughby halted his party, and repeated
his instruction to Joyce, in a voice very little raised above
a whisper. The serjeant was ordered to remain in his present
position, until he received a signal to advance. As for
the captain, himself, he intended to descend as near as
might be to the buttery of the cabin, and reconnoitre, before
he gave the final order. This buttery was in a lean-to,
as a small addition to the original building was called in the
parlance of the country; and, the object being shade and
coolness, on account of the milk with which it was usually
well stored at this season of the year, it projected back to
the very cliff, where it was half hid in bushes and young
trees. It had but a single small window, that was barred
with wood to keep out cats, and such wild vermin as affected
milk, nor was it either lathed or plastered; these two last
being luxuries not often known in the log tenements of the
frontier. Still it was of solid logs, chinked in with mortar,
and made a very effectual prison, with the door properly
guarded; the captive being deprived of edged tools. All
this was also known to the father, when he set forth to effect
the liberation of his son, and, like the positions of the buildings
themselves, had been well weighed in his estimate of
the probabilities and chances.
As soon as his orders were given, Captain Willoughby
proceeded down the path, accompanied only by Nick. He
had announced his intention to send the Tuscarora ahead
to reconnoitre, then to force himself among the bushes
between the lean-to and the rocks, and there to open a communication
with the major through the chinks of the logs.
After receiving Nick's intelligence, his plan was to be governed
by circumstances, and to act accordingly.
“God bless you, Joyce,” said the captain, squeezing the
serjeant's hand as he was on the point of descending. “We
are on ticklish service, and require all our wits about us.
If anything happen to me, remember that my wife and
daughter will mainly depend on you for protection.”
“I shall consider that as your honour's orders, sir, and
no more need be said to me, Captain Willoughby.”
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The captain smiled on his old follower, and Joyce thought
that never had he seen the fine manly face of his superior
beam with a calmer, or sweeter expression, than it did as
he returned his own pressure of the hand. The two
adventurers were both careful, and their descent was
noiseless. The men above listened, in breathless silence,
but the stealthy approach of the cat upon the bird could not
have been more still, than that of these two experienced
warriors.
The place where Joyce was left with the men, might
have been fifty feet above the roof of the cabin, and almost
perpendicularly over the narrow vacancy that was known
to exist between the rocks and the lean-to. Still the bushes
and trees were so thick as to prevent the smallest glimpse
at objects below, had the shape of the cliff allowed it, while
they even intercepted sounds. Joyce fancied, nevertheless,
that he heard the rustling bushes, as the captain forced his
way into the narrow space he was to occupy, and he augured
well of the fact, since it proved that no opposition had
been encountered. Half an hour of forest silence followed,
that was only interrupted by the tumbling of the waters
over the natural dam. At the end of that weary period, a
shout was heard in front of the mills, and the party raised
their pieces, in a vague apprehension that some discovery
had been made that was about to bring on a crisis. Nothing
further occurred, however, to confirm this impression,
and an occasional burst of laughter, that evidently came
from white men, rather served to allay the apprehension.
Another half-hour passed, during which no interruption was
heard. By this time Joyce became uneasy, a state of things
having arrived for which no provision had been made in his
instructions. He was about to leave his command under
the charge of Jamie, and descend himself to reconnoitre,
when a footstep was heard coming up the path. Nothing
but the deep attention, and breathless stillness of the men
could have rendered the sound of a tread so nearly noiseless,
audible; but heard it was, at a moment when every
sense was wrought up to its greatest powers. Rifles were
lowered, in readiness to receive assailants, but each was
raised again, as Nick came slowly into view. The Tuscarora
was calm in manner, as if no incident had occurred to
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disconcert the arrangement, though his eyes glanced around
him, like those of a man who searched for an absent person.
“Where cap'in? — Where major?” Nick asked, as soon
as his glance had taken in the faces of all present.
“We must ask that of you, Nick,” returned Joyce. “We
have not seen the captain, nor had any orders from him,
since he left us.”
This answer seemed to cause the Indian more surprise
than it was usual for him to betray, and he pondered a moment
in obvious uneasiness.
“Can't stay here, alway,” he muttered. “Best go see.
Bye'm-by trouble come; then, too late.”
The serjeant was greatly averse to moving without orders.
He had his instructions how to act in every probable
contingency, but none that covered the case of absolute inaction
on the part of those below. Nevertheless, twice the
time necessary to bring things to issue had gone by, and
neither signal, shot, nor alarm had reached his ears.
“Do you know anything of the major, Nick?” the serjeant
demanded, determined to examine the case thoroughly
ere he came to a decision.
“Major dere — see him at door — plenty sentinel. All
good — where cap'in?”
“Where did you leave him? — You can give the last account
of him.”
“Go in behind cupboard—under rock—plenty bushes—
all right—son dere.”
“This must be looked to—perhaps his honour has fallen
into a fit—such things sometimes happen—and a man who
is fighting for his own child, doesn't feel, Jamie, all the same
as one who fights on a general principle, as it might be.”
“Na—ye're right, sairjeant J'yce, and ye'll be doing the
kind and prudent act, to gang doon yersal', and investigate
the trainsaction with yer ain een.”
This Joyce determined to do, directing Nick to accompany
him, as a guide. The Indian seemed glad to comply,
and there was no delay in proceeding. It required but a
minute to reach the narrow passage between the cliff and
the lean-to. The bushes were carefully shoved aside, and
Joyce entered. He soon caught a glimpse of the hunting-shirt,
and then he was about to withdraw, believing that he
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was in error, in anticipating orders. But a short look at his
commander removed all scruples; for he observed that he
was seated on a projection of the rocks, with his body bowed
forward, apparently leaning on the logs of the building.
This seemed to corroborate the thought about a fit, and the
serjeant pressed eagerly forward to ascertain the truth.
Joyce touched his commander's arm, but no sign of consciousness
came from the latter. He then raised his body
upright, placing the back in a reclining attitude against the
rocks, and started back himself when he caught a glimpse
of the death-like hue of the face. At first, the notion of the
fit was strong with the serjeant; but, in changing his own
position, he caught a glimpse of a little pool of blood, which
at once announced that violence had been used.
Although the serjeant was a man of great steadiness of
nerves, and unchangeable method, he fairly trembled as he
ascertained the serious condition of his old and well-beloved
commander. Notwithstanding, he was too much of a soldier
to neglect anything that circumstances required. On
examination, he discovered a deep and fatal wound between
two of the ribs, which had evidently been inflicted with a
common knife. The blow had passed into the heart, and
Captain Willoughby was, out of all question, dead! He
had breathed his last, within six feet of his own gallant son,
who, ignorant of all that passed, was little dreaming of the
proximity of one so dear to him, as well as of his dire
condition.
Joyce was a man of powerful frame, and, at that moment,
he felt he was master of a giant's strength. First assuring
himself of the fact that the wounded man had certainly
ceased to breathe, he brought the arms over his own shoulders,
raised the body on his back, and walked from the
place, with less attention to caution than on entering, but
with sufficient care to prevent exposure. Nick stood watching
his movements with a wondering look, and as soon as
there was room, he aided in supporting the corpse.
In this manner the two went up the path, bearing their
senseless burden. A gesture directed the party with Jamie
to precede the two who had been below, and the serjeant did
not pause even to breathe, until he had fairly reached the
summit of the cliff; then he halted in a place removed from the
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danger of immediate discovery. The body was laid reverently
on the ground, and Joyce renewed his examination
with greater ease and accuracy, until perfectly satisfied that
the captain must have ceased to breathe, nearly an hour.
This was a sad and fearful blow to the whole party. No
one, at such a moment, thought of inquiring into the manner
in which their excellent master had received his death-blow;
but every thought was bent either on the extent of the
calamity, or on the means of getting back to the Hut.
Joyce was the soul of the party. His rugged face assumed
a stern, commanding expression; but every sign of weakness
had disappeared. He gave his orders promptly, and
the men even started when he spoke, so bent on obtaining
obedience did he appear to be.
The rifles were converted into a bier, the body was placed
upon it, and the four men then raised the burthen, and began
to retrace their footsteps, in melancholy silence. Nick led
the way, pointing out the difficulties of the path, with a
sedulousness of attention, and a gentleness of manner, that
none present had ever before witnessed in the Tuscarora.
He even appeared to have become woman, to use one of his
own peculiar expressions.
No one speaking, and all the men working with good
will, the retreat, notwithstanding the burthen with which it
was encumbered, was made with a rapidity greatly exceeding
the advance. Nick led the way with an unerring eye,
even selecting better ground than that which the white men
had been able to find on their march. He had often traversed
all the hills, in the character of a hunter, and to him
the avenues of the forest were as familiar as the streets of
his native town become to the burgher. He made no offer
to become one of the bearers; this would have been opposed
to his habits; but, in all else, the Indian manifested gentleness
and solicitude. His apprehension seemed to be, and
so he expressed it, that the Mohawks might get the scalp of
the dead man; a disgrace that he seemed as solicitous to
avoid as Joyce himself; the serjeant, however, keeping in
view the feelings of the survivors, rather than any notions
of military pride.
Notwithstanding the stern resolution that prevailed among
the men, that return march was long and weary. The
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distance, of itself, exceeded two miles, and there were the
inequalities and obstacles of a forest to oppose them. Perseverance
and strength, however, overcame all difficulties;
and, at the end of two hours, the party approached the point
where it became necessary to enter the bed of the rivulet,
or expose their sad procession by marching in open view of
any who might be straggling in the rear of the Hut. A
species of desperate determination had influenced the men
in their return march, rendering them reckless of discovery,
or its consequences; a circumstance that had greatly
favoured their object; the adventurous and bold frequently
encountering fewer difficulties, in the affairs of war, than
the cautious and timid. But an embarrassment now presented
itself that was far more difficult to encounter than
any which proceeded from personal risks. The loving
family of the deceased was to be met; a wife and daughters
apprised of the fearful loss that, in the providence of God,
had suddenly alighted on their house.
“Lower the body, men, and come to a halt,” said Joyce,
using the manner of authority, though his voice trembled;
“we must consult together, as to our next step.”
There was a brief and decent pause, while the party
placed the lifeless body on the grass, face uppermost, with
the limbs laid in order, and everything about it, disposed of
in a seemliness that betokened profound respect for the
senseless clay, even after the noble spirit had departed.
Mike alone could not resist his strong native propensity to
talk. The honest fellow raised a hand of his late master,
and, kissing it with strong affection, soliloquized as follows,
in a tone that was more rebuked by feeling, than any apprehension
of consequences.
“Little need had ye of a praist, and extreme unction,” he
said. “The likes of yerself always kapes a clane breast;
and the knife that went into yer heart found nothing that ye
need have been ashamed of! Sorrow come over me, but
yer lass is as great a one to meself, as if I had tidings of the
sinking of ould Ireland into the salt say, itself; a thing that
niver can happen, and niver will happen; no, not even at
the last day; as all agree the wor-r-ld is to be burned and
not drowned. And who'll there be to tell this same to the
Missus, and Miss Beuley, and phratty Miss Maud, and the
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babby, in the bargain? Divil bur-r-n me, if 't will be
Michael O'Hearn, who has too much sorrow of his own, to
be running about, and d'aling it out to other people. Sarjeant,
that will be yer own jewty, and I pities the man that
has to perform it.”
“No man will see me shrink from a duty, O'Hearn,”
said Joyce, stiffly, while with the utmost difficulty he kept
the tears from breaking out of a fountain that had not
opened, in this way, for twenty years. “It may bear hard
on my feelings—I do not say it will not—but duty is duty,
and it must be done. Corporal Allen, you see the state of
things; the commanding officer is among the casualties,
and nothing would be simpler than our course, were it not
for Madam Willoughby — God bless her, and have her in
His holy keeping—and the young ladies. It is proper to
deliberate a little about them. To you then, as an elderly
and experienced man, I first apply for an opinion.”
“Sorrow's an unwelcome guest, whether it comes expected,
or without any previous knowledge. The hairts o'
the widow and fairtherless must be stricken, and it's little
that a' our consolations and expairiments will prevail ag'in
the feelin's o' natur'. Pheeloosophy and religion tall us that
the body's no mair than a clod o' the valley when the
speerit has fled; but the hairt is unapt to listen to wisdom
while the grief is fraish, and of the severity of an unlooked-for
sairtainty. I see little good, therefore, in doing mair
than just sending in a messenger to clear the way a little
for the arrival of truth, in the form o' death, itsal'.”
“I have been thinking of this — will you take the office,
Jamie, as a man of years and discretion?”
“Na—na—ye'll be doing far better by sending a younger
man. Age has weakened my memory, and I'll be overlooking
some o' the saircumstances in a manner that will be
unseemly for the occasion. Here is Blodget, a youth of
ready wit, and limber tongue.”
“I wouldn't do it, mason, to be the owner of ten such
properties as this!” exclaimed the young Rhode Islander,
actually recoiling a step, as if he retreated before a dreaded
foe.
“Well, sairjeant, ye've Michael here, who belangs to a
kirk that has so little seempathy with protestantism as to
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lessen the pain o' the office. Death is a near ally to religion,
and Michael, by taking a religious view o' the maither, might
bring his hairt into such a condition of insensibility as wad
give him little to do but to tell what has happened, leaving
God, in his ain maircy, to temper the wind to the shorn
lamb.”
“You hear, O'Hearn?” said the serjeant, stiffly—“Everybody
seems to expect that you will do this duty.”
“Jewty!—D'ye call it a jewty for a man in my situation
to break the hearts of Missus, and Miss Beuly, and phratty
Miss Maud, and the babby? for babbies has hearts as well
as the stoutest man as is going. Divil bur-r-n me, then, if
ye gets out of my mout' so much as a hint that the captain's
dead and gone from us, for ever and ever, amen! Ye may
send me in, for ye're corporals, and serjeants, and the likes
of yees, and I'll obey as a souldier, seein' that he would
have wished as much himself, had the breat' staid in his
body, which it has not, on account of its l'aving his sowl on
'arth, and departing with his corporeal part for the mansions
of happiness, the Blessed Mary have mercy on him, whether
here or there — but the captain was not the man to wish a
fait'ful follower to afflict his own wife; and so I'll have
not'in' to do with such a message, at all at all.”
“Nick go” — said the Indian, calmly — “Used to carry
message — carry him for cap'in, once more.”
“Well, Nick, you may do it certainly, if so disposed,”
answered Joyce, who would have accepted the services of a
Chinese rather than undertake the office in person. “You
will remember and speak to the ladies gently, and not break
the news too suddenly.”
“Yes—squaw soft heart—Nick know—had moder—had
wife, once—had darter.”
“Very well; this will be an advantage, men, as Nick is
the only married man among us; and married men should
best understand dealing with females.”
Joyce then held a private communication with the Tuscarora,
that lasted some five or six minutes, when the last
leaped nimbly into the bed of the stream, and was soon con
cealed by the bushes of one of its reaches.
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“Heart leaps to heart—the sacred flood
That warms us is the same;
That good old man—his honest blood
Alike we fondly claim.”
Sprague.
Although Nick commenced his progress with so much
seeming zeal and activity, his speed abated, the moment he
found himself beyond the sight of those he had left in the
woods. Before he reached the foot of the cliff, his trot had
degenerated to a walk; and when he actually found he was
at its base, he seated himself on a stone, apparently to reflect
on the course he ought to pursue.
The countenance of the Tuscarora expressed a variety of
emotions while he thus remained stationary. At first, it
was fierce, savage, exulting; then it became gentler, soft,
perhaps repentant. He drew his knife from its buckskin
sheath, and eyed the blade with a gaze expressive of uneasiness.
Perceiving that a clot of blood had collected at the
junction with the handle, it was carefully removed by the
use of water. His look next passed over his whole person,
in order to ascertain if any more of these betrayers of his
fearful secret remained; after which he seemed more at ease.
“Wyandotté's back don't ache now,” he growled to himself.
“Ole sore heal up. Why Cap'in touch him? T'ink
Injin no got feelin'? Good man, sometime; bad man, sometime.
Sometime, live; sometime, die. Why tell Wyandott
é he flog ag'in, just as go to enemy's camp? No; back
feel well, now—nebber smart, any more.”
When this soliloquy was ended, Nick arose, cast a look
up at the sun, to ascertain how much of the day still remained,
glanced towards the Hut, as if examining the nature
of its defences, stretched himself like one who was weary,
and peeped out from behind the bushes, in order to see how
those who were afield, still occupied themselves. All this
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done, with singular deliberation and steadiness, he arranged
his light dress, and prepared to present himself before the
wife and daughters of the man, whom, three hours before,
he had remorselessly murdered. Nick had often meditated
this treacherous deed, during the thirty years which had
elapsed between his first flogging and the present period;
but circumstances had never placed its execution safely in
his power. The subsequent punishments had increased the
desire, for a few years; but time had so far worn off the
craving for revenge, that it would never have been actively
revived, perhaps, but for the unfortunate allusions of the
victim himself, to the subject. Captain Willoughby had
been an English soldier, of the school of the last century.
He was naturally a humane and a just man, but he believed
in the military axiom that “the most flogging regiments
were the best fighting regiments;” and perhaps he was not
in error, as regards the lower English character. It was a
fatal error, however, to make in relation to an American
savage; one who had formerly exercised the functions, and
who had not lost all the feelings, of a chief. Unhappily, at
a moment when everything depended on the fidelity of the
Tuscarora, the captain had bethought him of his old expedient
for insuring prompt obedience, and, by way of a reminder,
he made an allusion to his former mode of punishment.
As Nick would have expressed it, “the old sores
smarted;” the wavering purpose of thirty years was suddenly
and fiercely revived, and the knife passed into the
heart of the victim, with a rapidity that left no time for appeals
to the tribunal of God's mercy. In half a minute,
Captain Willoughby had ceased to breathe.
Such had been the act of the man who now passed through
the opening of the palisade, and entered the former habitation
of his victim. A profound stillness reigned in and
around the Hut, and no one appeared to question the unexpected
intruder. Nick passed, with his noiseless step, round
to the gate, which he found secured. It was necessary to
knock, and this he did in a way effectually to bring a porter.
“Who dere?” demanded the elder Pliny, from within.
“Good friend—open gate. Come wid message from
cap'in.”
The natural distaste to the Indians which existed among
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the blacks of the Knoll, included the Tuscarora. This disgust
was mingled with a degree of dread; and it was difficult
for beings so untutored and ignorant, at all times to draw
the proper distinctions between Indian and Indian. In their
wonder-loving imaginations, Oneidas, Tuscaroras, Mohawks,
Onondagas, and Iroquois were all jumbled together in inextricable
confusion, a red man being a red man, and a savage
a savage. It is not surprising, therefore, that Pliny
the elder should hesitate about opening the gate, and admitting
one of the detested race, though a man so well
known to them all, in the peculiar situation of the family.
Luckily, Great Smash happened to be near, and her husband
called her to the gate by one of the signals that was
much practised between them.
“Who you t'ink out dere?” asked Pliny the elder of his
consort, with a very significant look.
“How you t'ink guess, ole Plin?—You 'spose nigger
wench like Albonny wise woman, dat she see t'rough a
gate, and know ebbery t'ing, and little more!”
“Well, dat Sassy Nick. What you say now?”
“You sartain, ole Plin?” asked Mistress Smash, with a
face ominous of evil.
“Sartain as ear. Talk wid him—he want to come in.
What you t'ink?”
“Nebber open gate, ole Plin, till mistress tell you. You
stay here—dere; lean ag'in gate wid all you might; dere;
now I go call Miss Maud. She all alone in librarim, and
will know what best. Mind you lean ag'in gate well, ole
Plin.”
Pliny the elder nodded assent, placed his shoulders resolutely
against the massive timbers, and stood propping a
defence that would have made a respectable resistance to a
battering-ram, like another Atlas, upholding a world. His
duty was short, however, his `lady' soon returning with
Maud, who was hastening breathlessly to learn the news.
“Is it you, Nick?” called out the sweet voice of our heroine
through the crevices of the timber.
The Tuscarora started, as he so unexpectedly heard
those familiar sounds; for an instant, his look was dark;
then the expression changed to pity and concern, and his
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reply was given with less than usual of the abrupt, guttural
brevity that belonged to his habits.
“'Tis Nick—Sassy Nick—Wyandotté, Flower of the
Woods,” for so the Indian often termed Maud.—“Got
news—cap'in send him. Meet party and go along. Nobody
here; only Wyandotté. Nick see major, too—say
somet'ing to young squaw.”
This decided the matter. The gate was unbarred, and
Nick in the court in half-a-minute. Great Smash stole a
glance without, and beckoned Pliny the elder to join her,
in order to see the extraordinary spectacle of Joel and his
associates toiling in the fields. When they drew in their
heads, Maud and her companion were already in the library.
The message from Robert Willoughby had induced our heroine
to seek this room; for, placing little confidence in the
delicacy of the messenger, she recoiled from listening to his
words in the presence of others.
But Nick was in no haste to speak. He took the chair
to which Maud motioned, and he sate looking at her, in a
way that soon excited her alarm.
“Tell me, if your heart has any mercy in it, Wyandotté;
has aught happened to Major Willoughby?”
“He well—laugh, talk, feel good. Mind not'ing. He
prisoner; don't touch he scalp.”
“Why, then, do you wear so ominous a look—your face
is the very harbinger of evil.”
“Bad news, if trut' must come. What you' name, young
squaw?”
“Surely, surely, you must know that well, Nick! I am
Maud — your old friend, Maud.”
“Pale-face hab two name—Tuscarora got t'ree. Sometime,
Nick — sometime, Sassy Nick — sometime, Wyandott
é.”
“You know my name is Maud Willoughby,” returned
our heroine, colouring to the temples with a certain secret
consciousness of her error, but preferring to keep up old
appearances.
“Dat call you' fader's name, Meredit'; no Willoughby.”
“Merciful Providence! and has this great secret been
known to you, too, Nick!”
“He no secret—know all about him. Wyandotté dere.—
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See Major Meredit' shot. He good chief — nebber flog —
nebber strike Injin. Nick know fader, know moder—know
squaw, when pappoose.”
“And why have you chosen this particular moment to
tell me all this? Has it any relation to your message—to
Bob — to Major Willoughby, I mean?” demanded Maud,
nearly gasping for breath.
“No relation, tell you,” said Nick, a little angrily.
“Why make relation, when no relation at all. Meredit';
no Willoughby. Ask moder; ask major; ask chaplain —
all tell trut'! No need to be so feelin'; no you fader, at
all.”
“What can you — what do you mean, Nick? Why do
you look so wild—so fierce—so kind—so sorrowful—so
angry? You must have bad news to tell me.”
“Why bad to you—he no fader—only fader friend. You
can't help it—fader die when you pappoose—why you care,
now, for dis?”
Maud now actually gasped for breath. A frightful glimpse
of the truth gleamed before her imagination, though it
was necessarily veiled in the mist of uncertainty. She
became pale as death, and pressed her hand upon her heart,
as if to still its beating. Then, by a desperate effort, she
became more calm, and obtained the power to speak.
“Oh! is it so, Nick! — can it be so!” she said; “my
father has fallen in this dreadful business?”
“Fader kill twenty year ago; tell you dat, how often?”
answered the Tuscarora, angrily; for, in his anxiety to
lessen the shock to Maud, for whom this wayward savage
had a strange sentiment of affection, that had grown out of
her gentle kindnesses to himself, on a hundred occasions,
he fancied if she knew that Captain Willoughby was not
actually her father, her grief at his loss would be less.
“Why you call dis fader, when dat fader. Nick know
fader and moder. — Major no broder.”
Notwithstanding the sensations that nearly pressed her
to the earth, the tell-tale blood rushed to Maud's cheeks,
again, at this allusion, and she bowed her face to her knees.
The action gave her time to rally her faculties; and, catching
a glimpse of the vast importance to all for her
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maintaining self-command, she was enabled to raise her face with
something like the fortitude the Indian hoped to see.
“Trifle with me no longer, Wyandotte, but let me know
the worst at once. Is my father dead?—By father, I mean
captain Willoughby?”
“Mean wrong, den — no fader, tell you. Why young
squaw so much like Mohawk?”
“Man—is captain Willoughby killed?”
Nick gazed intently into Maud's face for half a minute,
and then he nodded an assent. Notwithstanding all her
resolutions to be steady, our heroine nearly sank under the
blow. For ten minutes she spoke not, but sat, her head bowed
to her knees, in a confusion of thought that threatened a
temporary loss of reason. Happily, a flood of tears relieved
her, and she became more calm. Then the necessity of
knowing more, in order that she might act intelligently; occurred
to her mind, and she questioned Nick in a way to
elicit all it suited the savage to reveal.
Maud's first impulse was to go out to meet the body of
the captain, and to ascertain for herself that there was actually
no longer any hope. Nick's account had been so
laconic as to leave much obscurity, and the blow had been
so sudden she could hardly credit the truth in its full extent.
Still, there remained the dreadful tidings to be communicated
to those dear beings, who, while they feared so much, had
never anticipated a calamity like this. Even Mrs. Willoughby,
sensitive as she was, and wrapped up in those she
loved so entirely, as she was habitually, had been so long
accustomed to see and know of her husband's exposing
himself with impunity, as to begin to feel, if not to think,
that he bore a charmed life. All this customary confidence
was to be overcome, and the truth was to be said. Tell the
fact to her mother, Maud felt that she could not then;
scarcely under any circumstances would she have consented
to perform this melancholy office; but, so long as a shadow
of doubt remained on the subject of her father's actual decease,
it seemed cruel even to think of it. Her decision was
to send for Beulah, and it was done by means of one of
the negresses.
So long as we feel that there are others to be sustained
by our fortitude, even the feeblest possess a firmness to
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which they might otherwise be strangers. Maud, contrary
to what her delicate but active frame and sweetness of disposition
might seem to indicate, was a young woman capable
of the boldest exertions, short of taking human life. Her
frontier training had raised her above most of the ordinary
weaknesses of her sex; and, so far as determination went,
few men were capable of higher resolution, when circumstances
called for its display. Her plan was now made up
to go forth and meet the body, and nothing short of a command
from her mother could have stopped her. In this
frame of mind was our heroine, when Beulah made her appearance.
“Maud!” exclaimed the youthful matron, “what has
happened! — why are you so pale! — why send for me?
Does Nick bring us any tidings from the mill?”
“The worst possible, Beulah. My father — my dear,
dear father is hurt. They have borne him as far as the
edge of the woods, where they have halted, in order not to
take us by surprise. I am going to meet the — to meet the
men, and to bring father in. You must prepare mother for
the sad, sad tidings—yes, Beulah, for the worst, as everything
depends on the wisdom and goodness of God!”
“Oh! Maud, this is dreadful!” exclaimed the sister, sinking
into a chair—“What will become of mother — of little
Evert—of us all!”
“The providence of the Ruler of heaven and earth will
care for us. Kiss me, dear sister — how cold you are —
rouse yourself, Beulah, for mother's sake. Think how much
more she must feel than we possibly can, and then be resolute.”
“Yes, Maud—very true—no woman can feel like a wife—
unless it be a mother—”
Here Beulah's words were stopped by her fainting.
“You see, Smash,” said Maud, pointing to her sister
with a strange resolution, “she must have air, and a little
water—and she has salts about her, I know. Come, Nick;
we have no more time to waste—you must be my guide.”
The Tuscarora had been a silent observer of this scene,
and if it did not awaken remorse in his bosom, it roused
feelings that had never before been its inmates. The sight
of two such beings suffering under a blow that his own
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hand had struck, was novel to him, and he knew not which
to encourage most, a sentiment allied to regret, or a fierce
resentment, that any should dare thus to reproach, though it
were only by yielding to the grief natural to their situation.
But Maud had obtained a command over him, that he knew
not how to resist, and he followed her from the room, keeping
his eyes riveted the while on the pallid face of Beulah.
The last was recalled from her insensibility, however, in
the course of a few minutes, through the practised attentions
of the negresses.
Maud waited for nothing. Motioning impatiently for the
Tusearora to lead the way, she glided after him with a rapidity
that equalled his own loping movement. She made
no difficulties in passing the stockade, though Nick kept his
eyes on the labourers, and felt assured their exeunt was not
noticed. Once by the path that led along the rivulet, Maud
refused all precautions, but passed swiftly over it, partially
concealed by its bushes. Her dress was dark, and left little
liability to exposure. As for Nick, his forest attire, like the
hunting shirt of the whites, was expressly regulated by the
wish to go to and fro unseen.
In less than three minutes after the Indian and Maud had
passed the gate, they were drawing near to the melancholy
group that had halted in the forest. Our heroine was recognised
as she approached, and when she came rushing up
to the spot, all made way, allowing her to fall upon her
knees by the side of the lifeless body, bathing the placid
face of the dead with her tears, and covering it with kisses.
“Is there no hope—oh! Joyce,” she cried, “can it be
possible that my father is actually dead?”
“I fear, Miss Maud, that his honour has made his last
march. He has received orders to go hence, and, like a
gallant soldier as he was, he has obeyed, without a murmur;”
answered the serjeant, endeavouring to appear firm
and soldier-like, himself. “We have lost a noble and humane
commander, and you a most excellent and tender
father.”
“No fader,”—growled Nick, at the serjeant's elbow,
twitching his sleeve, at the same time, to attract attention.
“Serjeant know her fader. He by; I by, when Iroquois
shoot him.”
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“I do not understand you, Tuscarora, nor do I think you
altogether understand us; the less you say, therefore, the
better for all parties. It is our duty, Miss Maud, to say
`God's will be done,' and the soldier who dies in the discharge
of his duty is never to be pitied. I sincerely wish
that the Rev. Mr. Woods was here; he would tell you all
this in a manner that would admit of no dispute; as for
myself, I am a plain man, Miss Maud, and my tongue cannot
utter one-half that my heart feels at this instant.”
“Ah! Joyce, what a friend—what a parent has it pleased
God to call to himself!”
“Yes, Miss Maud, that may be said with great justice—
if his honour has left us in obedience to general orders, it
is to meet promotion in a service that will never weary, and
never end.”
“So kind; so true; so gentle; so just; so affectionate!”
said Maud, wringing her hands.
“And so brave, young lady. His honour, captain Willoughby,
was n't one of them that is always talking, and
writing, and boasting about fighting; but when anything
was to be done, the Colonel always knew whom to send on
the duty. The army could n't have lost a braver gentleman,
had he remained in it.”
“Oh! my father—my father,”—cried Maud, in bitterness
of sorrow, throwing herself on the body and embracing
it, as had been her wont in childhood—“would that I
could have died for you!”
“Why you let go on so,” grumbled Nick, again. “No
her fader—you know dat, serjeant.”
Joyce was not in a state to answer. His own feelings
had been kept in subjection only by military pride, but they
now had become so nearly uncontrollable, that he found
himself obliged to step a little aside in order to conceal his
weakness. As it was, large tears trickled down his rugged
face, like water flowing from the fissures of the riven oak.
Jamie Allen's constitutional prudence, however, now became
active, admonishing the party of the necessity of their getting
within the protection of the Hut.
“Death is at a' times awfu',” said the mason, “but it
must befall young and auld alike. And the affleection it
brings cometh fra' the heart, and is a submission to the la'
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o'nature. Navertheless we a' hae our duties, so lang as
we remain in the flesh, and it is time to be thinking o' carryin'
the body into some place o' safety, while we hae a
prudent regard to our ain conditions also.”
Maud had risen, and, hearing this appeal, she drew back
meekly, assumed a manner of forced composure, and signed
to the men to proceed. On this intimation, the body was
raised, and the melancholy procession resumed its march.
For the purpose of concealment, Joyce led the way into
the bed of the stream, leaving Maud waiting their movements,
a little deeper within the forest. As soon as he and
his fellow-bearers were in the water, Joyce turned and desired
Nick to escort the young lady in, again, on dry land,
or by the path along which she had come out. This said,
the serjeant and his companions proceeded. Maud stood
gazing on the sad spectacle like one entranced, until she
felt a sleeve pulled, and perceived the Tuscarora at her side.
“No go to Hut,” said Nick, earnestly; “go wid Wyandotte.”
“Not follow my dear father's remains—not go to my beloved
mother in her anguish. You know not what you ask,
Indian—move, and let me proceed.”
“No go home—no use—no good. Cap'in dead—what
do widout commander. Come wid Wyandotté—find major—
den do some good.”
Maud fairly started in her surprise. There seemed something
so truly useful, so consoling, so dear in this proposal,
that it instantly caught her ear.
“Find the Major!” she answered. “Is that possible,
Nick? My poor father perished in making that attempt—
what hope can there be then for my success?”
“Plenty hope—much as want—all, want. Come wid
Wyandotté—he great chief—show young squaw where to
find broder.”
Here was a touch of Nick's consummate art. He knew
the female bosom so well that he avoided any allusion to his
knowledge of the real relation between Robert Willoughby
and Maud, though he had so recently urged her want of
natural affinity to the family, as a reason why she should
not grieve. By keeping the Major before her eyes as a
brother, the chances of his own success were greatly
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increased. As for Maud, a tumult of feeling came over her
heart at this extraordinary proposal. To liberate Bob, to
lead him into the Hut, to offer his manly protection to her
mother, and Beulah, and little Evert, at such an instant,
caught her imagination, and appealed to all her affections.
“Can you do this, Tuscarora”—she asked, earnestly,
pressing her hand on her heart as if to quiet its throbbings.
“Can you really lead me to Major Willoughby, so that I
may have some hope of liberating him?”
“Sartain—you go, he come. I go, he no come. Don't
love Nick—t'ink all Injin, one Injin—t'ink one Injin, all
Injin. You go, he come—he stay, find more knife, and die
like Cap'in. Young squaw follow Wyandotté, and see.”
Maud needed no more. To save the life of Bob, her well-beloved,
he who had so long been beloved in secret, she
would have gone with one far less known and trusted than
the Tuscarora. She made an eager gesture for him to proceed,
and they were soon on their way to the mill, threading
the mazes of the forest.
Nick was far from observing the precautions that had
been taken by the captain, in his unfortunate march out.
Acquainted with every inch of ground in the vicinity of the
Dam, and an eye-witness of the dispositions of the invaders,
he had no occasion for making the long detour already described,
but went to work in a much more direct manner.
Instead of circling the valley, and the clearing, to the westward,
he turned short in the contrary direction, crossed the
rivulet on the fallen tree, and led the way along the eastern
margin of the flats. On this side of the valley he knew
there were no enemies, and the position of the huts and
barns enabled him to follow a path, that was just deep
enough in the forest to conceal his movements. By taking
this course, besides having the advantage of a clear and
beaten path, most of the way, the Tuscarora brought the
whole distance within a mile.
As for Maud, she asked no questions, solicited no pauses,
manifested no physical weakness. Actively as the Indian
moved among the trees, she kept close in his footsteps; and
she had scarcely begun to reflect on the real nature of the
undertaking in which she was engaged, when the roar of the
rivulet, and the formation of the land, told her they had
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reached the edge of the glen below the mills. Here Nick
told her to remain stationary a moment, while he advanced
to a covered point of the rocks, to reconnoitre. This was
the place where the Indian had made his first observations
of the invaders of the valley, ascertaining their real character
before he trusted his person among them. On the present
occasion, his object was to see if all remained, in and
about the mills, as when he had last left the spot.
“Come”—said Nick, signing for Maud to follow him—
“we go—fools sleep, and eat, and talk. Major prisoner
now; half an hour, Major free.”
This was enough for the ardent, devoted, generous-hearted
Maud. She descended the path before her as swiftly as her
guide could lead, and, in five more minutes, they reached the
bank of the stream, in the glen, at a point where a curvature
hid the rivulet from those at the mill. Here an enormous
pine had been laid across the torrent; and, flattened on its
upper surface, it made a secure bridge for those who were
sure of foot, and steady of eye. Nick glanced back at his
companion, as he stepped upon this bridge, to ascertain if
she were equal to crossing it, a single glance sufficing to tell
him apprehensions were unnecessary. Half a minute placed
both, in safety, on the western bank.
“Good!” muttered the Indian; “young squaw make
wife for warrior.”
But Maud heard neither the compliment nor the expression
of countenance which accompanied it. She merely
made an impatient gesture to proceed. Nick gazed intently
at the excited girl; and there was an instant when he seemed
to waver in his own purpose; but the gesture repeated,
caused him to turn, and lead the way up the glen.
The progress of Nick now, necessarily, became more
guarded and slower. He was soon obliged to quit the common
path, and to incline to the left, more against the side
of the cliff, for the purposes of concealment. From the time
he had struck the simple bridge, until he took this precaution,
his course had lain along what might have been termed
the common highway, on which there was always the danger
of meeting some messenger, travelling to or from the
valley.
But Nick was at no loss for paths. There were plenty
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of them; and the one he took soon brought him out into that
by which Captain Willoughby had descended to the lean-to.
When the spot was reached where Joyce had halted, Nick
paused; and, first listening intently, to catch the sound of
noises, if any might happen to be in dangerous proximity, he
addressed his companion:
“Young squaw bold,” he said, encouragingly; “now want
heart of warrior.”
“I can follow, Nick — having come so far, why distrust
me, now?”
“'Cause he here — down dere — woman love man; man
love woman — dat right; but, no show it, when scalp in
danger.”
“Perhaps I do not understand you, Tuscarora — but, my
trust is in God; he is a support that can uphold any weakness.”
“Good! — stay here — Nick come back, in minute.”
Nick now descended to the passage between the rocks
and the lean-to, in order to make certain that the major still
remained in his prison, before he incurred any unnecessary
risk with Maud. Of this fact he was soon assured; after
which he took the precaution to conceal the pool of blood,
by covering it with earth and stones. Making his other
observations with care, and placing the saw and chisel, with
the other tools, that had fallen from the captain's hand, when
he received his death-wound, in a position to be handy, he
ascended the path, and rejoined Maud. No word passed
between our heroine and her guide. The latter motioned
for her to follow; then he led the way down to the cabin.
Soon, both had entered the narrow passage; and Maud, in
obedience to a sign from her companion, seated herself on
the precise spot where her father had been found, and where
the knife had passed into his heart. To all this, however,
Nick manifested the utmost indifference. Everything like
ferocity had left his face; to use his own figurative language,
his sores smarted no longer; and the expression of his eye
was friendly and gentle. Still it showed no signs of compunction.
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“Her pallid face display'd
Something, methought, surpassing mortal beauty.
She presently turn'd round, and fix'd her large, wild eyes,
Brimming with tears, upon me, fetch'd a sigh,
As from a riven heart, and cried: “He's dead!”
Hillhouse.
Maud had been so earnest, and so much excited, that she
scarcely reflected on the singularity and novelty of her
situation, until she was seated, as described at the close of
the last chapter. Then, indeed, she began to think that she
had embarked in an undertaking of questionable prudence,
and to wonder in what manner she was to be useful. Still
her heart did not fail her, or her hopes altogether sink.
She saw that Nick was grave and occupied, like a man who
intended to effect his purpose at every hazard; and that
purpose she firmly believed was the liberation of Robert
Willoughby.
As for Nick, the instant his companion was seated, and
he had got a position to his mind, he set about his business
with great assiduity. It has been said that the lean-to, like
the cabin, was built of logs; a fact that constituted the
security of the prisoner. The logs of the lean-to, however,
were much smaller than those of the body of the house, and
both were of the common white pine of the country; a wood
of durable qualities, used as it was here, but which yielded
easily to edged tools. Nick had a small saw, a large chisel,
and his knife. With the chisel, he cautiously commenced
opening a hole of communication with the interior, by
removing a little of the mortar that filled the interstices
between the logs. This occupied but a moment. When
effected, Nick applied an eye to the hole and took a look
within. He muttered the word “good,” then withdrew his
own eye, and, by a sign, invited Maud to apply one of hers.
This our heroine did, and saw Robert Willoughby, reading
within a few feet of her, with a calmness of air, that at once
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announced his utter ignorance of the dire event that had so
lately occurred, almost within reach of his arm.
“Squaw speak,” whispered Nick; “voice sweet as wren—
go to Major's ear like song of bird.—Squaw speak music
to young warrior.”
Maud drew back, her heart beat violently, her breathing
became difficult, and the blood rushed to her temples. But
an earnest motion from Nick reminded her this was no time
for hesitation, and she applied her mouth to the hole.
“Robert — dear Robert,” she said, in a loud whisper,
“we are here—have come to release you.”
Maud's impatience could wait no longer; but her eye
immediately succeeded her mouth. That she was heard
was evident from the circumstance that the book fell from
the Major's hand, in a way to show how completely he was
taken by surprise. “He knows even my whispers,” thought
Maud, her heart beating still more violently, as she observed
the young soldier gazing around him, with a bewildered air,
like one who fancied he had heard the whisperings of some
ministering angel. By this time, Nick had removed a long
piece of the mortar; and he too, was looking into the buttery.
By way of bringing matters to an understanding, the
Indian thrust the chisel through the opening, and, moving
it, he soon attracted Willoughby's attention. The latter
instantly advanced, and applied his own eye to the wide
crack, catching a view of the swarthy face of Nick.
Willoughby knew that the presence of this Indian, at such
a place, and under such circumstances, indicated the necessity
of caution. He did not speak, therefore; but, first
making a significant gesture towards the door of his narrow
prison, thus intimating the close proximity of sentinels, he
demanded the object of this visit, in a whisper.
“Come to set major free,” answered Nick.
“Can I trust you, Tuscarora? Sometimes you seem a
friend, sometimes an enemy. I know that you appear to be
on good terms with my captors.”
“Dat good—Injin know how to look two way—warrior
must, if great warrior.”
“I wish I had some proof, Nick, that you are dealing
with me in good faith.”
“Call dat proof, den!” growled the savage, seizing Maud's
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little hand, and passing it through the opening, before the
startled girl was fully aware of what he meant to do.
Willoughby knew the hand at a glance. He would have
recognised it, in that forest solitude, by its symmetry and
whiteness, its delicacy and its fullness; but one of the taper
fingers wore a ring that, of late, Maud had much used;
being a diamond hoop that she had learned was a favourite
ornament of her real mother's. It is not surprising, therefore,
that he seized the pledge that was thus strangely held
forth, and had covered it with kisses, before Maud had presence
of mind sufficient, or strength to reclaim it. This
she would not do, however, at such a moment, without returning
all the proofs of ardent affection that were lavished
on her own hand, by giving a gentle pressure to the one in
which it was clasped.
“This is so strange, Maud!—so every way extraordinary,
that I know not what to think,” the young man whispered,
soon as he could get a glimpse of the face of the sweet girl.
“Why are you here, beloved, and in such company?”
“You will trust me, Bob — Nick comes as your friend.
Aid him all you can, now, and be silent. When free, then
will be the time to learn all.”
A sign of assent succeeded, and the major withdrew a
step, in order to ascertain the course Nick meant to pursue.
By this time, the Indian was at work with his knife, and he
soon passed the chisel in to the prisoner, who seized it, and
commenced cutting into the logs, at a point opposite to that
where the Tuscarora was whittling away the wood. The
object was to introduce the saw, and it required some labour
to effect such a purpose. By dint of application, however,
and by cutting the log above as well as that below, sufficient
space was obtained in the course of a few minutes. Nick
then passed the saw in, through the opening, it exceeding
his skill to use such a tool with readiness.
By this time, Willoughby was engaged with the earnestness
and zeal of the captive who catches a glimpse of liberty.
Notwithstanding, he proceeded intelligently and with
caution. The blanket given him by his captors, as a pallet,
was hanging from a nail, and he took the precaution to
draw this nail, and to place it above the spot selected for the
cut, that he might suspend the blanket so as to conceal
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what he was at, in the event of a visit from without. When
all was ready, and the blanket was properly placed, he
began to make long heavy strokes with the tool, in a way
to deaden the sound. This was a delicate operation; but
the work's being done behind the blanket, had some effect in
lessening the noise. As the work proceeded, Willoughby's
hopes increased; and he was soon delighted to hear from
Nick, that it was time to insert the saw in another place.
Success is apt to induce carelessness; and, as the task proceeded,
Willoughby's arm worked with greater rapidity,
until a noise at the door gave the startling information that
he was about to be visited. There was just time to finish
the last cut, and to let the blanket fall, before the door
opened. The saw-dust and chips had all been carefully removed,
as the work proceeded, and of these none were left
to betray the secret.
There might have been a quarter of a minute between
the moment when Willoughby seated himself, with his book
in his hand, and that in which the door opened. Short as
was this interval, it sufficed for Nick to remove the piece of
log last cut, and to take away the handle of the saw; the
latter change permitting the blanket to hang so close against
the logs as completely to conceal the hole. The sentinel
who appeared was an Indian in externals, but a dull, white
countryman in fact and character.
“I thought I heard the sound of a saw, major,” he said,
listlessly; “yet everything looks quiet, and in its place
here!”
“Where should I get such a tool?” Willoughby coolly
replied; “and what is there here to saw?”
“'Twas as nat'ral, too, as the carpenter himself could
make it, in sound!”
“Possibly the mill has been set in motion by some of
your idlers, and you have heard the large saw, which, at a
distance, may sound like a smaller one near by.”
The man looked incredulously at his prisoner for a moment;
then he drew to the door, with the air of one who
was determined to assure himself of the truth, calling aloud,
as he did so, to one of his companions to join him. Willoughby
knew that no time was to be lost. In half-a-minute,
he had passed the hole, dropped the blanket before it, had
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circled the slender waist of Maud with one arm, and was
shoving aside the bushes with the other, as he followed
Nick from the straitened passage between the lean-to and
the rock. The major seemed more bent on bearing Maud
from the spot, than on saving himself. Her feet scarce
touched the ground, as he ascended to the place where
Joyce had halted. Here Nick stood an instant, with a
finger raised in intense listening. His practised ears caught
the sound of voices in the lean-to, then scarce fifty feet distant.
Men called to each other by name, and then a voice
directly beneath them, proclaimed that a head was already
thrust through the hole.
“Here is your saw, and here is its workmanship!” exclaimed
this voice.
“And here is blood, too,” said another. “See! the
ground has been a pool beneath those stones.”
Maud shuddered, as if the soul were leaving its earthly
tenement, and Willoughby signed impatiently for Nick to
proceed. But the savage, for a brief instant, seemed bewildered.
The danger below, however, increased, and
evidently drew so near, that he turned and glided up the
ascent. Presently, the fugitives reached the descending
path, that diverged from the larger one they were on, and
by which Nick and Maud had so recently come diagonally
up this cliff. Nick leaped into it, and then the intervening
bushes concealed their persons from any who might continue
on the upward course. There was an open space, however,
a little lower down; and the quick-witted savage came to
a stand under a close cover, believing flight to be useless
should their pursuers actually follow on their heels.
The halt had not been made half-a-dozen seconds, when
the voices of the party ascending in chase, were heard
above the fugitives. Willoughby felt an impulse to dash
down the path, bearing Maud in his arms, but Nick interposed
his own body to so rash a movement. There was
not time for a discussion, and the sounds of voices, speaking
English too distinctly to pass for any but those of men of
English birth, or English origin, were heard disputing about
the course to be taken, at the point of junction between the
two paths.
“Go by the lower,” called out one, from the rear; “he
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will run down the stream, and make for the settlements on
the Hudson. Once before, he has done this, as I know from
Strides himself.”
“D—n Strides!” answered another, more in front. “He
is a sniveling scoundrel, who loves liberty, as a hog loves
corn; for the sake of good living. I say go the upper,
which will carry him on the heights, and bring him out
near his father's garrison.”
“Here are marks of feet on the upper,” observed a third,
“though they seem to be coming down, instead of going up
the hill.”
“It is the trail of the fellows who have helped him to
escape. Push up the hill, and we shall have them all in ten
minutes. Push up—push up.”
This decided the matter. It appeared to Willoughby that
at least a dozen men ran up the path, above his head, eager
in the pursuit, and anticipating success. Nick waited no
longer, but glided down the cliff, and was soon in the broad
path which led along the margin of the stream, and was the
ordinary thoroughfare in going to or from the Knoll. Here
the fugitives, as on the advance, were exposed to the danger
of accidental meetings; but, fortunately, no one was
met, or seen, and the bridge was passed in safety. Turning
short to the north, Nick plunged into the woods again,
following the cow-path by which he had so recently descended
to the glen. No pause was made even here. Willoughby
had an arm round the waist of Maud, and bore her
forward, with a rapidity to which her own strength was
altogether unequal. In less than ten minutes from the time
the prisoner had escaped, the fugitives reached the level of
the rock of the water-fall, or that of the plain of the Dam.
As it was reasonably certain that none of the invaders had
passed to that side of the valley, haste was no longer necessary,
and Maud was permitted to pause for breath.
The halt was short, however, our heroine, herself, now
feeling as if the major could not be secure until he was
fairly within the palisades. In vain did Willoughby try to
pacify her fears, and to assure her of his comparative safety;
Maud's nerves were excited, and then she had the dreadful
tidings, which still remained to be told, pressing upon her
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spirits, and quickening all her natural impulses and sentiments.
Nick soon made the signal to proceed, and then the three
began to circle the flats, as mentioned in the advance of
Maud and her companion. When they reached a favourable
spot, the Indian once more directed a halt, intimating
his own intention to move to the margin of the woods, in
order to reconnoitre. Both his companions heard this announcement
with satisfaction, for Willoughby was eager to
say to Maud directly that which he had so plainly indicated
by means of the box, and to extort from her a confession
that she was not offended; while Maud herself felt the necessity
of letting the major know the melancholy circumstance
that yet remained to be told. With these widely
distinct feelings uppermost, our two lovers saw Nick quit
them, each impatient, restless and uneasy.
Willoughby had found a seat for Maud, on a log, and he
now placed himself at her side, and took her hand, pressing
it silently to his heart.
“Nick has then been a true man, dearest Maud,” he said,
“notwithstanding all my doubts and misgivings of him.”
“Yes; he gave me to understand you would hardly trust
him, and that was the reason I was induced to accompany
him. We both thought, Bob, you would confide in me!”
“Bless you — bless you — beloved Maud — but have you
seen Mike—has he had any interview with you—in a word,
did he deliver you my box?”
Maud's feelings had been so much excited, that the declaration
of Willoughby's love, precious as it was to her heart,
failed to produce the outward signs that are usually exhibited
by the delicate and sensitive of her sex, when they
listen to the insinuating language for the first time. Her
thoughts were engrossed with her dreadful secret, and with
the best and least shocking means of breaking it to the
major. The tint on her cheek, therefore, scarce deepened,
as this question was put to her, while her eye, full of earnest
tenderness, still remained riveted on the face of her companion.
“I have seen Mike, dear Bob,” she answered, with a
steadiness that had its rise in her singleness of purpose —
“and he has shown me—given me, the box.”
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“But have you understood me, Maud?—You will remember
that box contained the great secret of my life!”
“This I well remember—yes, the box contains the great
secret of your life.”
“But — you cannot have understood me, Maud — else
would you not look so unconcerned — so vacantly — I am
not understood, and am miserable!”
“No—no—no”—interrupted Maud, hurriedly—“I understand
all you have wished to say, and you have no cause
to be—” Maud's voice became choked, for she recollected
the force of the blow that she had in reserve.
“This is so strange! — altogether so unlike your usual
manner, Maud, that there must be some mistake. The box
contained nothing but your own hair, dearest.”
“Yes; nothing else. It was my hair; I knew it the instant
I saw it.”
“And did it tell you no secret?—Why was Beulah's hair
not with it? Why did I cherish your hair, Maud, and your's
alone? You have not understood me!”
“I have, dear, dear Bob!—You love me—you wished to
say we are not brother and sister, in truth; that we have an
affection that is far stronger—one that will bind us together
for life. Do not look so wretched, Bob; I understand everything
you wish to say.”
“This is so very extraordinary! — So unlike yourself,
Maud, I know not what to make of it! I sent you that box,
beloved one, to say that you had my whole heart; that I
thought of you day and night; that you were the great object
of my existence, and that, while misery would be certain
without you, felicity would be just as certain with you;
in a word, that I love you, Maud, and can never love another.”
“Yes, so I understood you, Bob.”—Maud, spite of her
concentration of feeling on the dreadful secret, could not
refrain from blushing—“It was too plain to be mistaken.”
“And how was my declaration received? Tell me at
once, dear girl, with your usual truth of character, and
frankness—can you, will you love me in return?”
This was a home question, and, on another occasion, it
might have produced a scene of embarrassment and hesitation.
But Maud was delighted with the idea that it was in
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her power to break the violence of the blow she was about
to inflict, by setting Robert Willoughby's mind at ease on
this great point.
“I do love you, Bob,” she said, with fervent affection
beaming in every lineament of her angel face—“have loved
you, for years—how could it be otherwise? I have scarce
seen any other to love; and how see you, and refrain?”
“Blessed, blessed, Maud—but this is so strange—I fear
you do not understand me—I am not speaking of such affection
as Beulah bears me, as brother and sister feel; I speak
of the love that my mother bore my father—of the love of
man and wife”—
A groan from Maud stopped the vehement young man,
who received his companion in his arms, as she bowed her
head on his bosom, half fainting.
“Is this resentment, dearest, or is it consent?” he asked,
bewildered by all that passed.
“Oh! Bob—Father—father—father!”
“My father!—what of him, Maud? Why has the allusion
to him brought you to this state?”
“They have killed him, dearest, dearest Bob; and you
must now be father, husband, brother, son, all in one. We
have no one left but you!”
A long pause succeeded. The shock was terrible to
Robert Willoughby, but he bore up against it, like a man.
Maud's incoherent and unnatural manner was now explained,
and while unutterable tenderness of manner—a tenderness
that was increased by what had just passed—was exhibited
by each to the other, no more was said of love. A common
grief appeared to bind their hearts closer together, but it was
unnecessary to dwell on their mutual affection in words.
Robert Willoughby's sorrow mingled with that of Maud,
and, as he folded her to his heart, their faces were literally
bathed in each other's tears.
It was some time before Willoughby could ask, or Maud
give, an explanation. Then the latter briefly recounted all
she knew, her companion listening with the closest attention.
The son thought the occurrence as extraordinary as it was
afflicting, but there was not leisure for inquiry.
It was, perhaps, fortunate for our lovers that Nick's employment
kept him away. For nearly ten minutes longer
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did he continue absent; then he returned, slowly, thoughtful,
and possibly a little disturbed. At the sound of his
footstep, Willoughby released Maud from his arms, and both
assumed an air of as much tranquillity as the state of their
feetings would allow.
“Better march”—said, Nick, in his sententious manner—
“Mohawk very mad.”
“Do you see the signs of this?” asked the major, scarce
knowing what he said.
“Alway make Injin mad; lose scalp. Prisoner run
away, carry scalp with him.”
“I rather think, Nick, you do my captors injustice; so
far from desiring anything so cruel, they treated me well
enough, considering the circumstances, and that we are in
the woods.”
“Yes; spare scalp, 'cause t'ink rope ready. Nebber
trust Mohawk—all bad Injin.”
To own the truth, one of the great failings of the savages
of the American forests, was to think of the neighbouring
tribes, as the Englishman is known to think of the
Frenchman, and vice versa; as the German thinks of both,
and all think of the Yankee. In a word, his own tribe contains
everything that is excellent, with the Pawnee, the
Osage and Pottawattomie, as Paris contains all that is perfect
in the eyes of the bourgeois, London in those of the
cockney, and this virtuous republic in those of its own enlightened
citizens; while the hostile communities are remorselessly
given up to the tender solicitude of those beings
which lead nations, as well as individuals, into the sinks of
perdition. Thus Nick, liberalized as his mind had comparatively
become by intercourse with the whites, still retained
enough of the impressions of childhood, to put the worst
construction on the acts of all his competitors, and the best
on his own. In this spirit, then, he warned his companions
against placing any reliance on the mercy of the Mohawks.
Major Willoughby, however, had now sufficient inducements
to move, without reference to the hostile intentions of
his late captors. That his escape would excite a malignant
desire for vengeance, he could easily believe; but his mother,
his revered heart-broken mother, and the patient, afflicted
Beulah, were constantly before him, and gladly did he press
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on, Maud leaning on his arm, the instant Nick led the way.
To say that the lovely, confiding being who clung to his
side, as the vine inclines to the tree, was forgotten, or that
he did not retain a vivid recollection of all that she had so
ingenuously avowed in his favour, would not be rigidly accurate,
though the hopes thus created shone in the distance,
under the present causes of grief, as the sun's rays illumine
the depths of the heavens, while his immediate face is entirely
hidden by an eclipse.
“Did you see any signs of a movement against the house,
Nick?” demanded the major, when the three had been
busily making their way, for several minutes, round the
margin of the forest.
The Tuscarora turned, nodded his head, and glanced at
Maud.
“Speak frankly, Wyandotté—”
“Good!” interrupted the Indian with emphasis, assuming
a dignity of manner the major had never before witnessed.
“Wyandotté come—Nick gone away altogeder. Nebber
see Sassy Nick, ag'in, at Dam.”
“I am glad to hear this, Tuscarora, and as Maud says,
you may speak plainly.”
“T'ink, den, best be ready. Mohawk feel worse dan if
he lose ten, t'ree, six scalp. Injin know Injin feelin'. Pale-face
can't stop red-skin, when blood get up.”
“Press on, then, Wyandotté, for the sake of God — let
me, at least, die in defence of my beloved mother!”
“Moder; good!—Doctor Tuscarora, when death grin in
face! She my moder, too!”
This was said energetically, and in a manner to assure
his listeners that they had a firm ally in this warlike savage.
Little did either dream, at that instant, that this same wayward
being — the creature of passion, and the fierce avenger
of all his own fancied griefs, was the cause of the dreadful
blow that had so recently fallen on them.
The sun still wanted an hour of setting, when Nick
brought his companions to the fallen tree, by which they
were again to cross the rivulet. Here he paused, pointing
to the roofs of the Hut, which were then just visible through
the trees; as much as to say that his duty, as a guide, was
done.
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“Thank you, Wyandotté,” said Willoughby; “if it be
the will of God to carry us safely through the crisis, you
shall be well rewarded for this service.”
“Wyandotté chief—want no dollar. Been Injin runner—
now be Injin warrior. Major follow — squaw follow —
Mohawk in hurry.”
This was enough. Nick passed out of the forest on a
swift walk—but for the female, it would have been his customary,
loping trot — followed by Willoughby; his arm,
again, circling the waist of Maud, whom he bore along,
scarce permitting her light form to touch the earth. At this
instant, four or five conches sounded, in the direction of the
mills, and along the western margin of the meadows. Blast
seemed to echo blast; then the infernal yell, known as the
war-whoop, was heard all along the opposite face of the
buildings. Judging from the sounds, the meadows were
alive with assailants, pressing on for the palisades.
At this appalling moment, Joyce appeared on the ridge
of the roof, shouting, in a voice that might have been heard
to the farthest point in the valley—
“Stand to your arms, my men,” he cried; “here the
scoundrels come; hold your fire until they attempt to cross
the stockade.”
To own the truth, there was a little bravado in this, mingled
with the stern courage that habit and nature had both
contributed to lend the serjeant. The veteran knew the
feebleness of his garrison, and fancied that warlike cries,
from himself, might counterbalance the yells that were now
rising from all the fields in front of the house.
As for Nick and the major, they pressed forward, too
earnest and excited, to speak. The former measured the
distance by his ear; and thought there was still time to gain
a cover, if no moment was lost. To reach the foot of the
cliff, took just a minute; to ascend to the hole in the palisade,
half as much time; and to pass it, a quarter. Maud was
dragged ahead, as much as she ran; and the period when
the three were passing swiftly round to the gate, was pregnant
with imminent risk. They were seen, and fifty rifles
were discharged, as it might be, at a command. The bullets
pattered against the logs of the Hut, and against the
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palisades, but no one was hurt. The voice of Willoughby
opened the gate, and the next instant the three were within
the shelter of the court.
CHAPTER XIII.
“They have not perish'd — no!
Kind words, remembered voices, once so sweet,
Smiles, radiant long ago,
And features, the great soul's apparent seat;
“All shall come back, each tie
Of pure affection shall be knit again;
Alone shall evil die,
And sorrow dwell a prisoner in thy reign.
“And then shall I behold
Him, by whose kind paternal side I sprung,
And her, who still and cold,
Fills the next grave — the beautiful and young.”
Bryant's Past.
The scene that followed passed like a hurricane sweeping
over the valley. Joyce had remained on the ridge of
the roof, animating his little garrison, and endeavouring to
intimidate his enemies, to the last moment. The volley of
bullets had reached the palisades and the buildings, and he
was still unharmed. But the sound of the major's voice
below, and the cry that Miss Maud and Nick were at the
gate, produced a sudden change in all his dispositions for
the defence. The serjeant ran below himself, to report and
receive his orders from the new commander, while all the
negroes, females as well as males, rushed down into the
court, to meet their young master and mistress.
It is not easy to describe the minute that succeeded, after
Willoughby and Maud were surrounded by the blacks.
The delight of these untutored beings was in proportion to
their recent sorrow. The death of their master, and the captivity
of Master Bob and Miss Maud, had appeared to them
like a general downfall of the family of Willoughby; but
here was a revival of its hopes, that came as unexpectedly
as its previous calamities. Amid the clamour, cries, tears,
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lamentations, and bursts of uncontrollable delight, Joyce
could scarce find a moment in which to discharge his duty.
“I see how it is, serjeant,” exclaimed Willoughby; “the
assault is now making, and you desire orders.”
“There is not an instant to lose, Major Willoughby; the
enemy are at the palisades already, and there is no one at
his station but Jamie and young Blodget.”
“To your posts, men — to your posts, everybody. The
house shall be made good at all hazards. For God's
sake, Joyce, give me arms. I feel that my father's wrongs
are to be revenged.”
“Robert—dear, dear Robert,” said Maud, throwing her
arms on his shoulders, “this is no moment for such bitter
feelings. Defend us, as I know you will, but defend us like
a Christian.”
One kiss was all that the time allowed, and Maud rushed
into the house to seek her mother and Beulah, feeling as
if the tidings of Bob's return might prove some little alleviation
to the dreadful blow under which they must be suffering.
As for Willoughby, he had no time for pious efforts at
consolation. The Hut was to be made good against a host
of enemies; and the cracking of rifles from the staging and
the fields, announced that the conflict had begun in earnest.
Joyce handed him a rifle, and together they ascended
rapidly to the roofs. Here they found Jamie Allen and
Blodget, loading and firing as fast as they could, and were
soon joined by all the negroes. Seven men were now collected
on the staging; and placing three in front, and two
on each wing, the major's dispositions were made; moving,
himself, incessantly, to whatever point circumstances called.
Mike, who knew little of the use of fire-arms, was stationed
at the gate, as porter and warder.
It was so unusual a thing for savages to attack by day-light,
unless they could resort to surprise, that the assailants
were themselves a little confused. The assault was
made, under a sudden feeling of resentment at the escape
of the prisoner, and contrary to the wishes of the principal
white men in the party, though the latter were dragged in
the train of events, and had to seem to countenance that of
which they really disapproved. These sudden
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out-breakings were sufficiently common in Indian warfare, and often
produced memorable disasters. On the present occasion,
however, the most that could occur was a repulse, and to
this the leaders, demagogues who owed their authority to
the excesses and necessities of the times, were fain to submit,
should it happen.
The onset had been fierce and too unguarded. The moment
the volley was fired at the major, the assailants broke
cover, and the fields were alive with men. This was the
instant when the defence was left to Allen and Blodget, else
might the exposure have cost the enemy dear. As it was,
the last brought down one of the boldest of the Indians,
while the mason fired with good will, though with less visible
effect. The yell that followed this demonstration of the
apparent force of the garrison, was a wild mixture of anger
and exultation, and the rush at the palisades was general
and swift. As Willoughby posted his reinforcement, the
stockade was alive with men, some ascending, some firing
from its summit, some aiding others to climb, and one falling
within the enclosure, a second victim to Blodget's unerring
aim.
The volley that now came from the roofs staggered the
savages, most of whom fell outward, and sought cover in
their usual quick and dexterous manner. Three or four,
however, thought it safer to fall within the palisades, seeking
safety immediately under the sides of the buildings. The
view of these men, who were perfectly safe from the fire of
the garrison so long as the latter made no sortie, gave an
idea to those without, and produced, what had hitherto been
wanting, something like order and concert in the attack.
The firing now became desultory and watchful on both
sides, the attacking party keeping themselves covered by the
trees and fences as well as they could, while the garrison
only peered above the ridge of the roof, as occasions required.
The instant the outbreak occurred, all the ci-devant dependants
of captain Willoughby, who had deserted, abandoned
their various occupations in the woods and fields,
collecting in and around the cabins, in the midst of their
wives and children. Joel, alone, was not to be seen. He
had sought his friends among the leaders of the party,
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behind a stack of hay, at a respectful distance from the
house, and to which there was a safe approach by means
of the rivulet and its fringe of bushes. The little council
that was held at this spot took place just as the half-dozen
assailants who had fallen within the palisades were seen
clustering along under the walls of the buildings.
“Natur's gives you a hint how to conduct,” observed Joel,
pointing out this circumstance to his principal companions,
as they all lay peering over the upper portions of the stack,
at the Hut. “You see them men under the eaves—they're
a plaguy sight safer up there, than we be down here; and,
if 'twere'n't for the look of the thing, I wish I was with 'em.
That house will never be taken without a desperate sight
of fightin'; for the captain is an old warrior, and seems to
like to snuff gunpowder”—the reader will understand none
knew of the veteran's death but those in the house—“and
won't be for givin' up while he has a charge left. If I had
twenty men—no, thirty would be better, where these fellows
be, I think the place could be carried in a few minutes, and
then liberty would get its rights, and your monarchy-men
would be put down as they all desarve.”
“What do then?” demanded the leading Mohawk, in his
abrupt guttural English. “No shoot—can't kill log.”
“No, chief, that's reasonable, an' ongainsayable, too;
but only one-half the inner gate is hung, and I've contrived
matters so, on purpose, that the props of the half that is n't
on the hinges can be undone, all the same as onlatching the
door. If I only had the right man here, now, the business
should be done, and that speedily.”
“Go 'self,” answered the Mohawk, not without an expression
of distrust and contempt.
“Every man to his callin', chief. My trade is peace, and
politics, and liberty, while your's is war. Howsever, I can
put you, and them that likes fightin', on the trail, and then
we'll see how matters can be done. Mortality! How them
desperate devils on the roof do keep blazin' away! It
would n't surprise me if they shot somebody, or get hurt
themselves!”
Such were the deliberations of Joel Strides on a battle.
The Indian leaders, however, gave some of their ordinary
signals, to bring their `young men' more under command,
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and, sending messengers with orders in different directions,
they left the haystack, compelling Joel to accompany them.
The results of these movements were soon apparent.
The most daring of the Mohawks made their way into the
rivulet, north of the buildings, and were soon at the foot of
the cliff. A little reconnoitring told them that the hole
which Joel had pointed out, had not been closed since the
entrance of Willoughby and his companions. Led by their
chief, the warriors stole up the ascent, and began to crawl
through the same inlet which had served as an outlet to so
many deserters, the previous night, accompanied by their
wives and children.
The Indians in front had been ordered to occupy the
attention of the garrison, while this movement was in the
course of execution. At a signal, they raised a yell, unmasked
them, fired one volley, and seemed to make another
rush at the works. This was the instant chosen for the
passage of the hole, and the seven leading savages effected
their entrance within the stockade, with safety. The eighth
man was shot by Blodget, in the hole itself. The body was
instantly withdrawn by the legs, and all in the rear fell
back under the cover of the cliff.
Willoughby now understood the character of the assault.
Stationing Joyce, with a party to command the hole, he
went himself into the library, accompanied by Jamie and
Blodget, using a necessary degree of caution. Fortunately
the windows were raised, and a sudden volley routed all the
Indians who had taken shelter beneath the rocks. These
men, however, fled no further than the rivulet, where they
rallied under cover of the bushes, keeping up a dropping
fire at the windows. For several minutes, the combat was
confined to this spot; Willoughby, by often shifting from
window to window along the rear of the house, getting several
volleys that told, at the men under the cover.
As yet, all the loss had been on the side of the assailants,
though several of the garrison, including both Willoughby
and Joyce, had divers exceedingly narrow escapes. Quite
a dozen of the assailants had suffered, though only four
were killed outright. By this time, the assault had lasted
an hour, and the shades of evening were closing around the
place. Daniel, the miller, had been sent by Joel to spring
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the mine they had prepared together, but, making the mistake
usual with the uninitiated, he had hung back, to let
others pass the hole first, and was consequently carried
down in the crowd, within the cover of the bushes of the
rivulet.
Willoughby had a short consultation with Joyce, and then
he set seriously about the preparations necessary for a night
defence. By a little management, and some personal risk,
the bullet-proof shutters of the north wing of the Hut were
all closed, rendering the rear of the buildings virtually impregnable.
When this was done, and the gates of the area
were surely shut, the place was like a ship in a gale, under
short canvass and hove-to. The enemy within the palisades
were powerless, to all appearance, the walls of stone preventing
anything like an application of fire. Of the last,
however, there was a little danger on the roof, the Indians
frequently using arrows for this purpose, and water was
placed on the staging in readiness to be used on occasion.
All these preparations occupied some time, and it was
quite dark ere they were completed. Then Willoughby had
a moment for reflection; the firing having entirely ceased,
and nothing further remaining to do.
“We are safe for the present, Joyce,” the major observed,
as he and the serjeant stood together on the staging, after
having consulted on the present aspect of things; “and I
have a solemn duty, yet, to perform—my dear mother—
and the body of my father—”
“Yes, sir; I would not speak of either, so long as it was
your honour's pleasure to remain silent on the subject. Madam
Willoughby is sorely cut down, as you may imagine,
sir; and, as for my gallant old commander, he died in his
harness, as a soldier should.”
“Where have you taken the body? — has my mother
seen it?”
“Lord bless you, sir, Madam Willoughby had his honour
carried into her own room, and there she and Miss Beulah”—
so all of the Hut still called the wife of Evert Beekman—
“she and Miss Beulah, kneel, and pray, and weep, as you
know, sir, ladies will, whenever anything severe comes over
their feelings—God bless them both, we all say, and think,
ay, and pray, too, in our turns, sir.”
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“Very well, Joyce. Even a soldier may drop a tear over
the dead body of his own father. God only knows what
this night will bring forth, and I may never have a moment
as favourable as this, for discharging so solemn a duty.”
“Yes, your honour”—Joyce fancied that the major had
succeeded to this appellation by the decease of the captain—
“yes, your honour, the commandments, that the Rev. Mr.
Woods used to read to us of a Sunday, tell us all about
that; and it is quite as much the duty of a Christian to mind
the commandments, I do suppose, as it is for a soldier to
obey orders. God bless you, sir, and carry you safe through
the affair. I had a touch of it with Miss Maud, myself, and
know what it is. It's bad enough to lose an old commander
in so sudden a way like, without having to feel what has
happened in company with so sweet ladies, as these we
have in the house. As for these blackguards down inside
the works, let them give you no uneasiness; it will be light
work for us to keep them busy, compared to what your honour
has to do.”
It would seem by the saddened manner in which Willoughby
moved away, that he was of the same way of
thinking as the serjeant, on this melancholy subject. The
moment, however, was favourable for the object, and delay
could not be afforded. Then Willoughby's disposition was
to console his mother, even while he wept with her over the
dead body of him they had lost.
Notwithstanding the wild uproar that had so prevailed,
not only without, but within the place, the portion of the
house that was occupied by the widowed matron and her
daughters, was silent as the grave. All the domestics were
either on the staging, or at the loops, leaving the kitchens
and offices deserted. The major first entered a little antechamber,
that opened between a store-room, and the apartment
usually occupied by his mother; this being the ordinary
means of approach to her room. Here he paused,
and listened quite a minute, in the hope of catching some
sound from within that might prepare him for the scene he
was to meet. Not a whisper, a moan, or a sob could
be heard; and he ventured to tap lightly at the door.
This was unheeded; waiting another minute, as much
in dread as in respect, he raised the latch with some such
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awe, as one would enter into a tomb of some beloved one.
A single lamp let him into the secrets of this solemn place.
In the centre of the room, lay stretched on a large table,
the manly form of the author of his being. The face was
uppermost, and the limbs had been laid, in decent order, as
is usual with the dead that have been cared for. No change
had been made in the dress, however, the captain lying in
the hunting-shirt in which he had sallied forth; the crimson
tint which disfigured one breast, having been sedulously
concealed by the attention of Great Smash. The passage
from life to eternity had been so sudden, as to leave the
usual benignant expression on the countenance of the corpse;
the paleness which had succeeded the fresh ruddy tint of
nature, alone denoting that the sleep was not a sweet repose,
but that of death.
The body of his father was the first object that met the
gaze of the major. He advanced, leaned forward, kissed
the marble-like forehead, with reverence, and groaned in
the effort to suppress an unmanly outbreaking of sorrow.
Then he turned to seek the other well-beloved faces. There
sat Beulah, in a corner of the room, as if to seek shelter for
her infant, folding that infant to her heart, keeping her look
riveted, in anguish, on the inanimate form that she had
ever loved beyond a daughter's love. Even the presence
of her brother scarce drew a glance away from the sad
spectacle; though, when it at length did, the youthful matron
bowed her face down to that of her child, and wept
convulsively. She was nearest to the major, who moved
to her side, and kissed the back of her neck, with kind
affection. The meaning was understood; and Beulah,
while unable to look up, extended a hand to meet the fraternal
pressure it received.
Maud was near, kneeling at the side of the bed. Her
whole attitude denoted the abstraction of a mind absorbed in
worship and solicitation. Though Willoughby's heart
yearned to raise her in his arms; to console her, and bid
her lean on himself, in future, for her earthly support, he
too much respected her present occupation, to break in upon
it with any irreverent zeal of his own. His eye turned from
this loved object, therefore, and hurriedly looked for his
mother.
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The form of Mrs. Willoughby had escaped the first glances
of her son, in consequence of the position in which she had
placed herself. The stricken wife was in a corner of the
room, her person partly concealed by the drapery of a
window-curtain; though this was evidently more the effect
of accident, than of design. Willoughby started, as he
caught the first glance of his beloved parent's face; and he
felt a chill pass over his whole frame. There she sat upright,
motionless, tearless, without any of the alleviating
weaknesses of a less withering grief, her mild countenance
exposed to the light of the lamp, and her eyes riveted on the
face of the dead. In this posture had she remained for
hours; no tender cares on the part of her daughters; no
attentions from her domestics; no outbreaking of her own
sorrows, producing any change. Even the clamour of the
assault had passed by her like the idle wind.
“My mother—my poor—dear—heart-broken mother!”
burst from Willoughby, at this sight, and he stepped quickly
forward, and knelt at her feet.
But Bob — the darling Bob — his mother's pride and joy,
was unheeded. The heart, which had so long beaten for
others only; which never seemed to feel a wish, or a pulsation,
but in the service of the objects of its affection, was
not sufficiently firm to withstand the blow that had lighted
on it so suddenly. Enough of life remained, however, to
support the frame for a while; and the will still exercised
its power over the mere animal functions. Her son shut
out the view of the body, and she motioned him aside with
an impatience of manner he had never before witnessed from
the same quarter. Inexpressibly shocked, the major took
her hands, by gentle compulsion, covering them with kisses,
and literally bathing them in tears.
“Oh! mother—dearest, dearest mother!” he cried, “will
you not—do you not know me—Robert—Bob—your much-indulged,
grateful, affectionate son. If father is gone into
the immediate presence of the God he revered and served, I
am still left to be a support to your declining years.
Lean on me, mother, next to your Father in Heaven.”
“Will he ever get up, Robert?” whispered the widowed
mother. “You speak too loud, and may rouse him before
his time. He promised me to bring you back; and he ever
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kept his promises. He had a long march, and is weary.
See, how sweetly he sleeps!”
Robert Willoughby bowed his head to his mother's knees,
and groaned aloud. When he raised his face again, he saw
the arms of Maud elevated towards heaven, as if she would
pluck down that consolation for her mother, that her spirit
was so fervently asking of the Almighty. Then he gazed
into the face of his mother again; hoping to catch a gleam
of some expression and recognition, that denoted more of
reason. It was in vain; the usual placidity, the usual mild
affection were there; but both were blended with the unnatural
halo of a mind excited to disease, if not to madness.
A slight exclamation, which sounded like alarm, came from
Beulah; and turning towards his sister, Willoughby saw
that she was clasping Evert still closer to her bosom, with
her eyes now bent on the door. Looking in the direction
of the latter, he perceived that Nick had stealthily entered
the room.
The unexpected appearance of Wyandotté might well
alarm the youthful mother. He had applied his war-paint
since entering the Hut; and this, though it indicated an intention
to fight in defence of the house, left a picture of
startling aspect. There was nothing hostile intended by
this visit, however. Nick had come not only in amity, but
in a kind concern to see after the females of the family,
who had ever stood high in his friendship, notwithstanding
the tremendous blow he had struck against their happiness.
But he had been accustomed to see those close distinctions
drawn between individuals and colours; and, the other proprieties
admitted, would not have hesitated about consoling
the widow with the offer of his own hand. Major Willoughby,
understanding, from the manner of the Indian,
the object of his visit, suffered him to pursue his own course,
in the hope it might rouse his mother to a better consciousness
of objects around her.
Nick walked calmly up to the table, and gazed at the
face of his victim with a coldness that proved he felt no
compunction. Still he hesitated about touching the body,
actually raising his hand, as if with that intent, and then
withdrawing it, like one stung by conscience. Willoughby
noted the act; and, for the first time, a shadowy suspicion
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glanced on his mind. Maud had told him all she knew of
the manner of his father's death, and old distrusts began
to revive, though so faintly as to produce no immediate
results.
As for the Indian, the hesitating gesture excepted, the
strictest scrutiny, or the keenest suspicion could have detected
no signs of feeling. The senseless form before him was
not less moved than he appeared to be, so far as the human
eye could penetrate. Wyandotté was unmoved. He believed
that, in curing the sores on his own back in this particular
manner, he had done what became a Tuscarora
warrior and a chief. Let not the self-styled Christians of
civilized society affect horror at this instance of savage
justice, so long as they go the whole length of the law
of their several communities, in avenging their own fancied
wrongs, using the dagger of calumny instead of the
scalping-knife, and rending and tearing their victims, by
the agency of gold and power, like so many beasts of
the field, in all the forms and modes that legal vindictiveness
will either justify or tolerate; often exceeding those
broad limits, indeed, and seeking impunity behind perjuries
and frauds.
Nick's examination of the body was neither hurried nor
agitated. When it was over, he turned calmly to consider
the daughters of the deceased.
“Why you cry—why you 'fear'd,” he said, approaching
Beulah, and placing his swarthy hand on the head of
her sleeping infant.—“Good squaw—good pappoose. Wyandott
é take care 'em in woods. Bye'm-by go to pale-face
town, and sleep quiet.”
This was rudely said, but it was well meant. Beulah so
received it; and she endeavoured to smile her gratitude in
the face of the very being from whom, more than from all
of earth, she would have turned in horror, could her mental
vision have reached the fearful secret that lay buried in his
own bosom. The Indian understood her look; and making
a gesture of encouragement, he moved to the side of the
woman whom his own hand had made a widow.
The appearance of Wyandotté produced no change in
the look or manner of the matron. The Indian took her
hand, and spoke.
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“Squaw berry good,” he said, with emphasis. “Why
look so sorry—cap'in gone to happy huntin'-ground of his
people. All good dere—chief time come, must go.”
The widow knew the voice, and by some secret association
it recalled the scenes of the past, producing a momentary
revival of her faculties.
“Nick, you are my friend,” she said, earnestly. “Go
speak to him, and see if you can wake him up.”
The Indian fairly started, as he heard this strange proposal.
The weakness lasted only for a moment, however,
and he became as stoical, in appearance at least, as before.
“No,” he said; “squaw quit cap'in, now. Warrior go
on last path, all alone—no want companion.—She look at
grave, now and den, and be happy.”
“Happy!” echoed the widow, “what is that, Nick?—
what is happy, my son? It seems a dream—I must have
known what it was; but I forget it all now. Oh! it was
cruel, cruel, cruel, to stab a husband, and a father—wasn't
it, Robert?—What say you, Nick—shall I give you more
medicine?—You'll die, Indian, unless you take it—mind
what a Christian woman tells you, and be obedient.—Here,
let me hold the cup—there; now you'll live!”
Nick recoiled an entire step, and gazed at the still beautiful
victim of his ruthless revenge, in a manner no one had
ever before noted in his mien. His mixed habits left him
in ignorance of no shade of the fearful picture before his
eyes, and he began better to comprehend the effects of the
blow he had so hastily struck—a blow meditated for years,
though given at length under a sudden and vehement impulse.
The widowed mother, however, was past noting
these changes.
“No — no — no — Nick,” she added, hurriedly, scarce
speaking above a whisper, “do not awake him! God will
do that, when he summons his blessed ones to the foot
of his throne. Let us all lie down, and sleep with him.
Robert, do you lie there, at his side, my noble, noble boy;
Beulah, place little Evert and yourself at the other side;
Maud, your place is by the head; I will sleep at his feet;
while Nick shall watch, and let us know when it will be
time to rise and pray—”
The general and intense—almost spell-bound—attention
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with which all in the room listened to these gentle but touching
wanderings of a mind so single and pure, was interrupted
by yells so infernal, and shrieks so wild and fearful,
that it seemed, in sooth, as if the last trump had sounded,
and men were passing forth from their graves to judgment.
Willoughby almost leaped out of the room, and Maud followed,
to shut and bolt the door, when her waist was encircled
by the arm of Nick, and she found herself borne
forward towards the din.
CHAPTER XIV.
“O, Time und Death! with certain pace,
Though still unequal, hurrying on,
O'erturning, in your awful race,
The cot, the palace, and the throne!”
Sands.
Maud had little leisure for reflection. The yells and
shrieks were followed by the cries of combatants, and the
crack of the rifle. Nick hurried her along at a rate so rapid
that she had not breath to question or remonstrate, until she
found herself at the door of a small store-room, in which
her mother was accustomed to keep articles of domestic
economy that required but little space. Into this room Nick
thrust her, and then she heard the key turn on her egress.
For a single moment, Wyandotté stood hesitating whether
he should endeavour to get Mrs. Willoughby and her other
daughter into the same place of security; then, judging of
the futility of the attempt, by the approach of the sounds
within, among which he heard the full, manly voice of Robert
Willoughby, calling on the garrison to be firm, he raised
an answering yell to those of the Mohawks, the war-whoop
of his tribe, and plunged into the fray with the desperation
of one who ran a muck, and with the delight of a demon.
In order to understand the cause of this sudden change,
it will be necessary to return a little, in the order of time.
While Willoughby was with his mother and sisters, Mike
had charge of the gate. The rest of the garrison was either
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at the loops, or was stationed on the roofs. As the darkness
increased, Joel mustered sufficient courage to crawl through
the hole, and actually reached the gate. Without him, it
was found impossible to spring his mine, and he had been
prevailed on to risk this much, on condition it should not
be asked of him to do such violence to his feelings as to
enter the court of a house in which he had seen so many
happy days.
The arrangement, by which this traitor intended to throw
a family upon the tender mercies of savages, was exceedingly
simple. It will be remembered that only one leaf of
the inner gate was hung, the other being put in its place,
where it was sustained by a prop. This prop consisted of
a single piece of timber, of which one end rested on the
ground, and the other on the centre of the gate; the last being
effectually prevented from slipping by pins of wood,
driven into the massive wood-work of the gate, above its
end. The lower end of the prop rested against a fragment
of rock that nature had placed at this particular spot. As
the work had been set up in a hurry, it was found necessary
to place wedges between the lower end of the prop and the
rock, in order to force the leaf properly into its groove, without
which it might have been canted to one side, and of
course easily overturned by the exercise of sufficient force
from without.
To all this arrangement, Joel had been a party, and he
knew, as a matter of course, its strong and its weak points.
Seizing a favourable moment, he had loosened the wedges,
leaving them in their places, however, but using the precaution
to fasten a bit of small but strong cord to the most
material one of the three, which cord he buried in the dirt,
and led half round a stick driven into the earth, quite near
the wall, and thence through a hole made by one of the
hinges, to the outer side of the leaf. The whole had been
done with so much care as to escape the vigilance of casual
observers, and expressly that the overseer might assist his
friends in entering the place, after he himself had provided
for his own safety by flight. The circumstance that no one
trod on the side of the gateway where the unhung leaf stood,
prevented the half-buried cord from being disturbed by any
casual footstep.
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As soon as Joel reached the wall of the Hut, his first care
was to ascertain if he were safe from missiles from the loops.
Assured of this fact, he stole round to the gate, and had a
consultation with the Mohawk chief, on the subject of springing
the mine. The cord was found in its place; and, hauling
on it gently, Joel was soon certain that he had removed
the wedge, and that force might speedily throw down the
unhung leaf. Still, he proceeded with caution. Applying
the point of a lever to the bottom of the leaf, he hove it back
sufficiently to be sure it would pass inside of its fellow; and
then he announced to the grave warrior, who had watched
the whole proceeding, that the time was come to lend his
aid.
There were a dozen reckless whites, in the cluster of savages
collected at the gate; and enough of these were placed
at handspikes to effect the intended dislodgement. The
plan was this: while poles were set against the upper portion
of the leaf, to force it within the line of the suspended
part, handspikes and crowbars, of which a sufficiency had
been provided by Joel's forethought, were to be applied between
the hinge edge and the wall, to cast the whole over
to the other side.
Unluckily, Mike had been left at the gate as the sentinel.
A more unfortunate selection could not have been made;
the true-hearted fellow having so much self-confidence, and
so little forethought, as to believe the gates impregnable.
He had lighted a pipe, and was smoking as tranquilly as he
had ever done before, in his daily indulgences of this character,
when the unhung leaf came tumbling in upon the
side where he sat; nothing saving his head but the upper
edge's lodging against the wall. At the same moment, a
dozen Indians leaped through the opening, and sprang into
the court, raising the yells already described. Mike followed,
armed with his shillelah, for his musket was abandoned
in the surprise, and he began to lay about him with an
earnestness that in nowise lessened the clamour. This was
the moment when Joyce, nobly sustained by Blodget and
Jamie Allen, poured a volley into the court, from the roofs;
when the fray became general. To this point had the combat
reached, when Willoughby rushed into the open air,
followed, a few instants later, by Nick.
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The scene that succeeded is not easily described. It was
a mélée in the dark, illuminated, at instants, by the flashes
of guns, and rendered horrible by shrieks, curses, groans
and whoops. Mike actually cleared the centre of the court,
where he was soon joined by Willoughby, when, together,
they made a rush at a door, and actually succeeded in gaining
their own party on the roof. It was not in nature for
the young soldier to remain here, however, while his mother,
Beulah, and, so far as he knew, Maud, lay exposed to the
savages below. Amid a shower of bullets he collected his
whole force, and was on the point of charging into the court,
when the roll of a drum without, brought everything to a
stand. Young Blodget, who had displayed the ardour of a
hero, and the coolness of a veteran throughout the short
fray, sprang down the stairs unarmed, at this sound, passed
through the astonished crowd in the court, unnoticed, and
rushed to the outer gate. He had barely time to unbar it,
when a body of troops marched through, led by a tall, manly-looking
chief, who was accompanied by one that the
young man instantly recognised, in spite of the darkness, for
Mr. Woods, in his surplice. At the next moment, the strangers
had entered, with military steadiness, into the court, to
the number of, at least, fifty, ranging themselves in order
across its area.
“In the name of Heaven, who are you?” called out Willoughby,
from a window. “Speak at once, or we fire.”
“I am Colonel Beekman, at the head of a regular force,”
was the answer, “and if, as I suspect, you are Major Willoughby,
you know you are safe. In the name of Congress,
I command all good citizens to keep the peace, or
they will meet with punishment for their contumacy.”
This announcement ended the war, Beekman and Willoughby
grasping each other's hands fervently, at the next
instant.
“Oh! Beekman!” exclaimed the last, “at what a moment
has God sent you hither! Heaven be praised! notwithstanding
all that has happened, you will find your wife
and child safe. Place sentinels at both gates; for treachery
has been at work here, and I shall ask for rigid justice.”
“Softly—softly—my good fellow,” answered Beekman,
pressing his hand. “Your own position is a little delicate,
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and we must proceed with moderation. I learned, just in
time, that a party was coming hither, bent on mischief; and
obtaining the necessary authority, I hastened to the nearest
garrison, obtained a company, and commenced my march
as soon as possible. Had we not met with Mr. Woods,
travelling for the settlements in quest of succour, we might
have been too late As it was, God be praised!—I think we
have arrived in season.”
Such were the facts. The Indians had repelled the
zealous chaplain, as a madman; compelling him to take the
route toward the settlements, however; their respect for this
unfortunate class of beings, rendering them averse to his
rejoining their enemies. He could, and did impart enough
to Beekman to quicken his march, and to bring him and
his followers up to the gate at a time when a minute might
have cost the entire garrison their lives.
Anxious as he was to seek Beulah and his child, Beekman
had a soldier's duties to perform, and those he would
not neglect. The sentinels were posted, and orders issued
to light lanterns, and to make a fire in the centre of the
court, so that the actual condition of the field of battle might
be ascertained. A surgeon had accompanied Beekman's
party, and he was already at work, so far as the darkness
would allow. Many hands being employed, and combustibles
easy to be found, ere long the desired light was gleaming
on the terrible spectacle.
A dozen bodies were stretched in the court, of which,
three or four were fated never to rise again, in life. Of the
rest, no less than four had fallen with broken heads, inflicted
by O'Hearn's shillelah. Though these blows were not
fatal, they effectually put the warriors hors de combat. Of
the garrison, not one was among the slain, in this part of
the field. On a later investigation, however, it was ascertained
that the poor old Scotch mason had received a mortal
hurt, through a window, and this by the very last shot that
had been fired. On turning over the dead of the assailants,
too, it was discovered that Daniel the Miller was of the
number. A few of the Mohawks were seen, with glowing
eyes, in corners of the court, applying their own rude dressings
to their various hurts; succeeding, on the whole, in
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effecting the great purpose of the healing art, about as well
as those who were committed to the lights of science.
Surprisingly few uninjured members of the assaulting
party, however, were to be found, when the lanterns appeared.
Some had slipped through the gate before the sentinels
were posted; others had found their way to the roof,
and thence, by various means to the ground; while a few
lay concealed in the buildings, until a favourable moment
offered to escape. Among all those who remained, not an
individual was found who claimed to be in any authority.
In a word, after five minutes of examination, both Beekman
and Willoughby were satisfied that there no longer existed
a force to dispute with them the mastery of the Hut.
“We have delayed too long relieving the apprehensions
of those who are very dear to us, Major Willoughby,” Beekman
at length observed. “If you will lead the way to the
parts of the buildings where your—my mother, and wife, are
to be found, I will now follow you.”
“Hold, Beekman—there yet remains a melancholy tale
to be told—nay, start not—I left our Beulah, and your boy,
in perfect health, less than a quarter of an hour since. But
my honoured, honourable, revered, beloved father has been
killed in a most extraordinary manner, and you will find his
widow and daughters weeping over his body.”
This appalling intelligence produced a halt, during which
Willoughby explained all he knew of the manner of his
father's death, which was merely the little he had been enabled
to glean from Maud. As soon as this duty was performed,
the gentlemen proceeded together to the apartment
of the mourners, each carrying a light.
Willoughby made an involuntary exclamation, when he
perceived that the door of his mother's room was open. He
had hoped Maud would have had the presence of mind to
close and lock it; but here he found it, yawning as if to invite
the entrance of enemies. The light within, too, was
extinguished, though, by the aid of the lanterns, he saw large
traces of blood in the ante-room, and the passages he was
obliged to thread. All this hastened his steps. Presently
he stood in the chamber of death.
Short as had been the struggle, the thirst for scalps had
led some of the savages to this sanctuary. The instant the
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Indians had gained the court, some of the most ferocious of
their number had rushed into the building, penetrating its
recesses in a way to defile them with slaughter. The first
object that Willoughby saw was one of these ruthless warriors,
stretched on the floor, with a living Indian, bleeding at
half a dozen wounds, standing over him; the eye-balls of
the latter were glaring like the tiger's that is suddenly confronted
to a foe. An involuntary motion was made towards
the rifle he carried, by the major; but the next look told him
that the living Indian was Nick. Then it was, that he gazed
more steadily about him, and took in all the horrible truths
of that fatal chamber.
Mrs. Willoughby was seated in the chair where she had
last been seen, perfectly dead. No mark of violence was
ever found on her body, however, and there is no doubt that
her constant spirit had followed that of her husband to the
other world, in submission to the blow which had separated
them. Beulah had been shot; not, as was afterwards ascertained,
by any intentional aim, but by one of those random
bullets, of which so many had been flying through the
buildings. The missile had passed through her heart, and
she lay pressing the little Evert to her bosom, with that air
of steady and unerring affection which had marked every
act of her innocent and feeling life. The boy himself, thanks
to the tiger-like gallantry of Nick, had escaped unhurt. The
Tuscarora had seen a party of six take the direction of this
chamber, and he followed with an instinct of their intentions.
When the leader entered the room, and found three dead
bodies, he raised a yell that betokened his delight at the
prospect of gaining so many scalps; at the next instant,
while his fingers were actually entwined in the hair of Captain
Willoughby, he fell by a blow from Wyandotté. Nick
next extinguished the lamp, and then succeeded a scene,
which none of the actors, themselves, could have described.
Another Mohawk fell, and the remainder, after suffering
horribly from the keen knife of Nick, as well as from blows
received from each other, dragged themselves away, leaving
the field to the Tuscarora. The latter met the almost bewildered
gaze of the major with a smile of grim triumph,
as he pointed to the three bodies of the beloved ones, and
said—
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“See — all got scalp! Deat', nothin' — scalp, ebbery
t'ing.”
We shall not attempt to describe the outbreaking of anguish
from the husband and brother. It was a moment of
wild grief, that bore down all the usual restraints of manhood,
though it was such a moment as an American frontier
residence has often witnessed. The quiet but deep-feeling
nature of Beekman received a shock that almost produced
a dissolution of his earthly being. He succeeded, however,
in raising the still warm body of Beulah from the floor, and
folding it to his heart. Happily for his reason, a flood of
tears, such as women shed, burst from his soul, rather than
from his eyes, bedewing her still sweet and placid countenance.
To say that Robert Willoughby did not feel the desolation,
which so suddenly alighted on a family that had
often been quoted for its mutual affection and happiness,
would be to do him great injustice. He even staggered under
the blow; yet his heart craved further information.
The Indian was gazing intently on the sight of Beekman's
grief, partly in wonder, but more in sympathy, when he felt
an iron pressure of his arm.
“Maud—Tuscarora”—the major rather groaned than
whispered in his ear, “know you anything of Maud?”
Nick made a gesture of assent; then motioned for the
other to follow. He led the way to the store-room, produced
the key, and throwing open the door, Maud was weeping on
Robert Willoughby's bosom in another instant. He would
not take her to the chamber of death, but urged her, by
gentle violence, to follow him to the library.
“God be praised for this mercy!” exclaimed the ardent
girl, raising her hands and streaming eyes to heaven. “I
know not, care not, who is conqueror, since you are safe!”
“Oh! Maud—beloved one—we must now be all in all to
each other. Death has stricken the others.”
This was a sudden and involuntary announcement, though
it was best it should be so under the circumstances. It was
long before Maud could hear an outline, even, of the details,
but she bore them better than Willoughby could have hoped.
The excitement had been so high, as to brace the mind to
meet any human evil. The sorrow that came afterwards,
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though sweetened by so many tender recollections, and chastened
hopes, was deep and enduring.
Our picture would not have been complete, without relating
the catastrophe that befell the Hutted Knoll; but, having
discharged this painful duty, we prefer to draw a veil over
the remainder of that dreadful night. The cries of the negresses,
when they learned the death of their old and young
mistress, disturbed the silence of the place for a few minutes,
and then a profound stillness settled on the buildings, marking
them distinctly as the house of mourning. On further
inquiry, too, it was ascertained that Great Smash, after
shooting an Oneida, had been slain and scalped. Pliny the
younger, also, fell fighting like a wild beast to defend the
entrance to his mistresses' apartments.
The following day, when light had returned, a more accurate
idea was obtained of the real state of the valley.
All of the invading party, the dead and wounded excepted,
had made a rapid retreat, accompanied by most of the deserters
and their families. The name, known influence,
and actual authority of Colonel Beekman had wrought this
change; the irregular powers that had set the expedition in
motion, preferring to conceal their agency in the transaction,
rather than make any hazardous attempt to claim the
reward of patriotic service, as is so often done in revolutions,
for merciless deeds and selfish acts. There had been
no real design on the part of the whites to injure any of the
family in their persons; but, instigated by Joel, they had
fancied the occasion favourable for illustrating their own
public virtue, while they placed themselves in the way of
receiving fortune's favours. The assault that actually occurred,
was one of those uncontrollable outbreakings of
Indian ferocity, that have so often set at defiance the restraints
of discipline.
Nick was not to be found either. He had been last seen
dressing his wounds, with Indian patience, and Indian skill,
preparing to apply herbs and roots, in quest of which he
went into the forest about midnight. As he did not return,
Willoughby feared that he might be suffering alone, and
determined to have a search made, as soon as he had performed
the last sad offices for the dead.
Two days occurred, however, before this melancholy duty
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was discharged. The bodies of all the savages who had
fallen were interred the morning after the assault; but that
of Jamie Allen, with those of the principal persons of the
family, were kept for the pious purposes of affection, until
the time mentioned.
The funeral was a touching sight. The captain, his wife,
and daughter, were laid, side by side, near the chapel; the
first and last of their race that ever reposed in the wilds of
America. Mr. Woods read the funeral service, summoning
all his spiritual powers to sustain him, as he discharged this
solemn office of the church. Willoughby's arm was around
the waist of Maud, who endeavoured to reward his tender
assiduities by a smile, but could not. Colonel Beekman
held little Evert in his arms, and stood over the grave with
the countenance of a resolute man stricken with grief—one
of the most touching spectacles of our nature.
“I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord,”
sounded in the stillness of that valley like a voice from
heaven, pouring out consolation on the bruised spirits of
the mourners. Maud raised her face from Willoughby's
shoulder, and lifted her blue eyes to the cloudless vault
above her, soliciting mercy, and offering resignation in the
look. The line of troops in the back-ground moved, as by
a common impulse, and then a breathless silence showed
the desire of these rude beings not to lose a syllable.
A round red spot formed on each of the cheeks of Mr.
Woods as he proceeded, and his voice gathered strength,
until its lowest intonations came clear and distinct on every
ear. Just as the bodies were about to be lowered into their
two receptacles, the captain, his wife and daughter being
laid in the same grave, Nick came with his noiseless step
near the little group of mourners. He had issued from the
forest only a few minutes before, and understanding the
intention of the ceremony, he approached the spot as fast
as weakness and wounds would allow. Even he listened
with profound attention to the chaplain, never changing his
eye from his face, unless to glance at the coffins as they lay
in their final resting-place.
“I heard a voice from Heaven, saying unto me, write,
From henceforth blessed are the dead who die in the Lord;
even so saith the Spirit, for they rest from their labours,”
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continued the chaplain, his voice beginning to betray a
tremor; then the gaze of the Tuscarora became keen as the
panther's glance at his discovered victim. Tears followed,
and, for a moment, the voice was choked.
“Why you woman?” demanded Nick, fiercely. “Save
all 'e scalp!”
This strange interruption failed to produce any effect.
First Beekman yielded; Maud and Willoughby followed;
until Mr. Woods, himself, unable to resist the double assaults
of the power of sympathy and his own affection,
closed the book and wept like a child.
It required minutes for the mourners to recover their self-command.
When the latter returned, however, all knelt on
the grass, the line of soldiers included, and the closing
prayers were raised to the throne of God.
This act of devotion enabled the mourners to maintain an
appearance of greater tranquillity until the graves were filled.
The troops advanced, and fired three volleys over the captain's
grave, when all retired towards the Hut. Maud had
caught little Evert from the arms of his father, and, pressing
him to her bosom, the motherless babe seemed disposed to
slumber there. In this manner she walked away, attended
closely by the father, who now cherished his boy as an only
treasure.
Willoughby lingered the last at the grave, Nick alone
remaining near him. The Indian had been struck by the
exhibition of deep sorrow that he had witnessed, and he felt
an uneasiness that was a little unaccountable to himself. It
was one of the caprices of this strange nature of ours, that
he should feel a desire to console those whom he had so
deeply injured himself. He drew near to Robert Willoughby,
therefore, and, laying a hand on the latter's arm, drew
his look in the direction of his own red and speaking face.
“Why so sorry, major?” he said. “Warrior nebber die
but once—must die sometime.”
“There lie my father, my mother, and my only sister,
Indian—is not that enough to make the stoutest heart bend?
You knew them, too, Nick—did you ever know better?”
“Squaw good—both squaw good—Nick see no pale-face
squaw he like so much.”
“I thank you, Nick! This rude tribute to the virtues of
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my mother and sister, is far more grateful to me than the
calculating and regulated condolence of the world.”
“No squaw so good as ole one—she, all heart—love every
body, but self.”
This was so characteristic of his mother, that Willoughby
was startled by the sagacity of the savage, though reflection
told him so long an acquaintance with the family must have
made a dog familiar with this beautiful trait in his mother.
“And my father, Nick!” exclaimed the major, with feeling—
“my noble, just, liberal, gallant father!—He, too, you
knew well, and must have loved.”
“No so good as squaw,” answered the Tuscarora, sententiously,
and not altogether without disgust in his manner.
“We are seldom as good as our wives, and mothers, and
sisters, Nick, else should we be angels on earth. But, allowing
for the infirmities of us men, my father was just and
good.”
“Too much flog”—answered the savage, sternly—“make
Injin's back sore.”
This extraordinary speech struck the major less, at the
time, than it did, years afterwards, when he came to reflect
on all the events and dialogues of this teeming week. Such
was also the case as to what followed.
“You are no flatterer, Tuscarora, as I have always found
in our intercourse. If my father ever punished you with
severity, you will allow me, at least, to imagine it was merited.”
“Too much flog, I say,” interrupted the savage, fiercely.
“No difference, chief or not. Touch ole sore too rough.
Good, some; bad, some. Like weather—now shine; now
storm.”
“This is no time to discuss these points, Nick. You
have fought nobly for us, and I thank you. Without your
aid, these beloved once would have been mutilated, as well
as slain; and Maud—my own blessed Maud—might now
have been sleeping at their sides.”
Nick's face was now all softness again, and he returned
the pressure of Willoughby's hand with honest fervour.
Here they separated. The major hastened to the side of
Maud, to fold her to his heart, and console her with his love.
Nick passed into the forest, returning no more to the Hut.
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His path led him near the grave. On the side where lay
the body of Mrs. Willoughby, he threw a flower he had
plucked in the meadow; while he shook his finger menacingly
at the other, which hid the person of his enemy. In
this, he was true to his nature, which taught him never to
forget a favour, or forgive an injury.
CHAPTER XV.
“I shall go on through all eternity,
Thank God, I only am an embryo still:
The small beginning of a glorious soul,
An atom that shall fill immensity.”
Coxe.
A FORTNIGHT elapsed ere Willoughby and his party could
tear themselves from a scene that had witnessed so much
domestic happiness; but on which had fallen the blight of
death. During that time, the future arrangements of the
survivors were completed. Beekman was made acquainted
with the state of feeling that existed between his brother-in-law
and Maud, and he advised an immediate union.
“Be happy while you can,” he said, with bitter emphasis.
“We live in troubled times, and heaven knows when we
shall see better. Maud has not a blood-relation in all America,
unless there may happen to be some in the British
army. Though we should all be happy to protect and
cherish the dear girl, she herself would probably prefer to
be near those whom nature has appointed her friends. To
me, she will always seem a sister, as you must ever be a
brother. By uniting yourselves at once, all appearances
of impropriety will be avoided; and in time, God averting
evil, you can introduce your wife to her English connections.”
“You forget, Beekman, that you are giving this advice
to one who is a prisoner on parole, and one who may possibly
be treated as a spy.”
“No — that is impossible. Schuyler, our noble com
mander, is both just and a gentleman. He will tolerate
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nothing of the sort. Your exchange can easily be effected,
and, beyond your present difficulties, I can pledge myself
to be able to protect you.”
Willoughby was not averse to following this advice; and
he urged it upon Maud, as the safest and most prudent
course they could pursue. Our heroine, however, was so
reluctant even to assuming the appearance of happiness, so
recently after the losses she had experienced, that the lover's
task of persuasion was by no means easy. Maud was totally
free from affectation, while she possessed the keenest
sense of womanly propriety. Her intercourse with Robert
Willoughby had been of the tenderest and most confidential
nature, above every pretence of concealment, and was rendered
sacred by the scenes through which they had passed.
Her love, her passionate, engrossing attachment, she did
not scruple to avow; but she could not become a bride
while the stains of blood seemed so recent on the very
hearth around which they were sitting. She still saw the
forms of the dead, in their customary places, heard their
laughs, the tones of their affectionate voices, the maternal
whisper, the playful, paternal reproof, or Beulah's gentle call.
“Yet, Robert,” said Maud, for she could now call him by
that name, and drop the desperate familiarity of `Bob,'—
“yet, Robert, there would be a melancholy satisfaction in
making our vows at the altar of the little chapel, where we
have so often worshipped together—the loved ones who
are gone and we who alone remain.”
“True, dearest Maud; and there is another reason why
we should quit this place only as man and wife. Beekman
has owned that a question will probably be raised
among the authorities at Albany concerning the nature of
my visit here. It might relieve him from an appeal to more
influence than would be altogether pleasant, did I appear as
a bridegroom rather than as a spy.”
The word “spy” settled the matter. All ordinary considerations
were lost sight of, under the apprehensions it
created, and Maud frankly consented to become a wife that
very day. The ceremony was performed by Mr. Woods
accordingly, and the little chapel witnessed tears of bitter
recollections mingling with the smiles with which the bride
received the warm embrace of her husband, after the
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benediction was pronounced. Still, all felt that, under the circumstances,
delay would have been unwise. Maud saw a
species of holy solemnity in a ceremony so closely connected
with scenes so sad.
A day or two after the marriage, all that remained of
those who had so lately crowded the Hut, left the valley
together. The valuables were packed and transported to
boats lying in the stream below the mills. All the cattle,
hogs, &c., were collected and driven towards the settlements;
and horses were prepared for Maud and the females,
who were to thread the path that led to Fort Stanwix. In a
word, the Knoll was to be abandoned, as a spot unfit to be
occupied in such a war. None but labourers, indeed, could,
or would remain, and Beekman thought it wisest to leave
the spot entirely to nature, for the few succeding years.
There had been some rumours of confiscations by the
new state, and Willoughby had come to the conclusion that
it would be safer to transfer this property to one who would
be certain to escape such an infliction, than to retain it in
his own hands. Little Evert was entitled to receive a portion
of the captain's estate by justice, if not by law. No
will had been found, and the son succeeded as heir-at-law.
A deed was accordingly drawn up by Mr. Woods, who understood
such matters, and being duly executed, the Beaver
Dam property was vested in fee in the child. His own
thirty thousand pounds, the personals he inherited from his
mother, and Maud's fortune, to say nothing of the major's
commission, formed an ample support for the new-married
pair. When all was settled, and made productive, indeed,
Willoughby found himself the master of between three and
four thousand sterling a year, exclusively of his allowances
from the British government, an ample fortune for that day.
In looking over the accounts of Maud's fortune, he had reason
to admire the rigid justice, and free-handed liberality
with which his father had managed her affairs. Every
farthing of her income had been transferred to capital, a
long minority nearly doubling the original investment. Unknown
to himself, he had married one of the largest heiresses
then to be found in the American colonies. This was
unknown to Maud, also; though it gave her great delight
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on her husband's account, when she came to learn the
truth.
Albany was reached in due time, though not without encountering
the usual difficulties. Here the party separated.
The remaining Plinys and Smashes were all liberated, handsome
provisions made for their little wants, and good places
found for them, in the connection of the family to which
they had originally belonged. Mike announced his determination
to enter a corps that was intended expressly to
fight the Indians. He had a long score to settle, and having
no wife or children, he thought he might amuse himself
in this way, during a revolution, as well as in any other.
“If yer honour was going anywhere near the county
Leitrim,” he said, in answer to Willoughby's offer to keep
him near himself, “I might travel in company; seein' that
a man likes to look on ould faces, now and then. Many
thanks for this bag of gold, which will sarve to buy scalps
wid'; for divil bur-r-n me, if I don't carry on that trade, for
some time to come. T'ree cuts wid a knife, half a dozen
pokes in the side, and a bullet scraping the head, makes a
man mindful of what has happened; to say nothing of the
captain, and Madam Willoughby, and Miss Beuly—God for
ever bless and presarve 'em all t'ree—and, if there was such
a thing as a bit of a church in this counthry, wouldn't I
use this gould for masses?—dut I would, and let the scalps
go to the divil!”
This was an epitome of the views of Michael O'Hearn.
No arguments of Willoughby's could change his resolution;
but he set forth, determined to illustrate his career by
procuring as many Indian scalps, as an atonement for the
wrongs done “Madam Willoughby and Miss Beuly,” as
came within his reach.
“And you, Joyce,” said the major, in an interview he
had with the serjeant, shortly after reaching Albany; “I
trust we are not to part. Thanks to Colonel Beekman's
influence and zeal, I am already exchanged, and shall repair
to New York next week. You are a soldier; and these are
times in which a good soldier is of some account. I think I
can safely promise you a commission in one of the new
provincial regiments, about to be raised.”
“I thank your honour, but do not feel at liberty to accept
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the offer. I took service with Captain Willoughby for life
had he lived, I would have followed wherever he led. But
that enlistment has expired; and I am now like a recruit
before he takes the bounty. In such cases, a man has always
a right to pick his corps. Politics I do not much understand;
but when the question comes up of pulling a trigger
for or against his country, an unengaged man has a right
to choose. Between the two, meaning no reproach to yourself,
Major Willoughby, who had regularly taken service
with the other side, before the war began—but, between the
two, I would rather fight an Englishman, than an American.”
“You may possibly be right, Joyce; though, as you say,
my service is taken. I hope you follow the dictates of conscience,
as I am certain I do myself. We shall never meet
in arms, however, if I can prevent it. There is a negotiation
for a lieutenant-colonelcy going on, which, if it succeed,
will carry me to England. I shall never serve an
hour longer against these colonies, if it be in my power to
avoid it.”
“States, with your permission, Major Willoughby,”
answered the serjeant, a little stiffly. “I am glad to hear
it, sir; for, though I wish my enemies good soldiers, I
would rather not have the son of my old captain among
them. Colonel Beekman has offered to make me serjeant-major
of his own regiment; and we both of us join next
week.”
Joyce was as good as his word. He became serjeant-major,
and, in the end, lieutenant and adjutant of the regiment
he had mentioned. He fought in most of the principal
battles of the war, and retired at the peace, with an
excellent character. Ten years later, he fell, in one of the
murderous Indian affairs, that occurred during the first
presidential term, a grey-headed captain of foot. The manner
of his death was not to be regretted, perhaps, as it was
what he had always wished might happen; but, it was a
singular fact, that Mike stood over his body, and protected
it from mutilation; the County Leitrim-man having turned
soldier by trade, re-enlisting regularly, as soon as at liberty,
and laying up scalps on all suitable occasions.
Blodget, too, had followed Joyce to the wars. The
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readiness and intelligence of this young man, united to a courage
of proof, soon brought him forward, and he actually came
out of the revolution a captain. His mind, manners and
information advancing with himself, he ended his career, not
many years since, a prominent politician in one of the new
states; a general in the militia—no great preferment, by the
way, for one who had been a corporal at the Hut — and a
legislator. Worse men have often acted in all these capacities
among us; and it was said, with truth, at the funeral of
General Blodget, an accident that does not always occur on
such occasions, that “another revolutionary hero is gone.”
Beekman was never seen to smile, from the moment he first
beheld the dead body of Beulah, lying with little Evert in
her arms. He served faithfully until near the close of the
war, falling in battle only a few months previously to the
peace. His boy preceded him to the grave, leaving, as confiscations
had gone out of fashion by that time, his uncle
heir-at-law, again, to the same property that he had conferred
on himself.
As for Willoughby and Maud, they were safely conveyed
to New York, where the former rejoined his regiment. Our
heroine here met her great-uncle, General Meredith, the first
of her own blood relations whom she had seen since infancy.
Her reception was grateful to her feelings; and, there being
a resemblance in years, appearance and manners, she transferred
much of that affection which she had thought interred
for ever in the grave of her reputed father, to this revered
relative. He became much attached to his lovely niece,
himself; and, ten years later, Willoughby found his income
quite doubled, by his decease.
At the expiration of six months, the gazette that arrived
from England, announced the promotion of “Sir Robert
Willoughby, Bart., late major in the —th, to be lieutenant-colonel,
by purchase, in His Majesty's —th regiment of
foot.” This enabled Willoughby to quit America; to which
quarter of the world he had no occasion to be sent during
the remainder of the war.
Of that war, itself, there is little occasion to speak. Its
progress and termination have long been matters of history.
The independence of America was acknowledged by England
in 1783; and, immediately after, the republicans
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commenced the conquest of their wide-spread domains, by means
of the arts of peace. In 1785, the first great assaults were
made on the wilderness, in that mountainous region which
has been the principal scene of our tale. The Indians had
been driven off, in a great measure, by the events of the
revolution; and the owners of estates, granted under the
crown, began to search for their lands in the untenanted
woods. Such isolated families, too, as had taken refuge in
the settlements, now began to return to their deserted possessions;
and soon the smokes of clearings were obscuring the
sun. Whitestown, Utica, on the site of old Fort Stanwix,
Cooperstown, for years the seat of justice for several thousand
square miles of territory, all sprang into existence between
the years 1785 and 1790. Such places as Oxford,
Binghamton, Norwich, Sherburne, Hamilton, and twenty
more, that now dot the region of which we have been writing,
did not then exist, even in name; for, in that day, the
appellation and maps came after the place; whereas, now,
the former precede the last.
The ten years that elapsed between 1785 and 1795, did
wonders for all this mountain district. More favourable
lands lay spread in the great west, but the want of roads,
and remoteness from the markets, prevented their occupation.
For several years, therefore, the current of emigration
which started out of the eastern states, the instant peace
was proclaimed, poured its tide into the counties mentioned
in our opening chapter— counties as they are to-day; county
ay, and fragment of a county, too, as they were then.
The New York Gazette, a journal that frequently related
facts that actually occurred, announced in its number of
June 11th, 1795, “His Majesty's Packet that has just arrived”—
it required half a century to teach the journalists
of this country the propriety of saying “His Britannic
Majesty's Packet,” instead of “His Majesty's,” a bit of good
taste, and of good sense, that many of them have yet to
learn—“has brought out,” home would have been better
“among her passengers, Lieutenant-General Sir Robert
Willoughby, and his lady, both of whom are natives of this
state. We welcome them back to their land of nativity,
where we can assure them they will be cordially received,
notwithstanding old quarrels. Major Willoughby's
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kindness to American prisoners is gratefully remembered; nor
is it forgotten that he desired to exchange to another regiment
in order to avoid further service in this country.”
It will be conceded, this was a very respectable puff for
the year 1795, when something like moderation, truth, and
propriety were observed upon such occasions. The effect
was to bring the English general's name into the mouths of
the whole state; a baronet causing a greater sensation then,
in America, than a duke would produce to-day. It had the
effect, however, of bringing around General Willoughby
many of his father's, and his own old friends, and he was
as well received in New York, twelve years after the termination
of the conflict, as if he had fought on the other side.
The occurrence of the French revolution, and the spread
of doctrines that were termed jacobinical, early removed
all the dissensions between a large portion of the whigs of
America and the tories of England, on this side of the water
at least; and Providence only can tell what might have
been the consequences, had this feeling been thoroughly
understood on the other.
Passing over all political questions, however, our narrative
calls us to the relation of its closing scene. The visit
of Sir Robert and Lady Willoughby to the land of their
birth was, in part, owing to feeling; in part, to a proper
regard for the future provision of their children. The baronet
had bought the ancient paternal estate of his family
in England, and having two daughters, besides an only son,
it occurred to him that the American property, called the
Hutted Knoll, might prove a timely addition to the ready
money he had been able to lay up from his income. Then,
both he and his wife had a deep desire to revisit those scenes
where they had first learned to love each other, and which
still held the remains of so many who were dear to them.
The cabin of a suitable sloop was therefore engaged, and
the party, consisting of Sir Robert, his wife, a man and
woman servant, and a sort of American courier, engaged
for the trip, embarked on the morning of the 25th of July.
On the afternoon of the 30th, the sloop arrived in safety at
Albany, where a carriage was hired to proceed the remainder
of the way by land. The route by old Fort Stanwix,
as Utica was still generally called, was taken. Our
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travellers reached it on the evening of the third day; the `Sands,'
which are now traversed in less than an hour, then occupying
more than half of the first day. When at Fort Stanwix,
a passable country road was found, by which the travellers
journeyed until they reached a tavern that united
many of the comforts of a coarse civilisation, with frontier
simplicity. Here they were given to understand they had
only a dozen miles to go, in order to reach the Knoll.
It was necessary to make the remainder of the journey
on horseback. A large, untenanted estate lay between the
highway and the valley, across which no public road had
yet been made. Foot-paths, however, abounded, and the
rivulet was found without any difficulty. It was, perhaps,
fortunate for the privacy of the Knoll, that it lay in the line
of no frequented route, and, squatters being rare in that
day, Willoughby saw, the instant he struck the path that
followed the sinuosities of the stream, that it had been seldom
trodden in the interval of the nineteen years which had
occurred since he had last seen it himself. The evidences
of this fact increased, as the stream was ascended, until the
travellers reached the mill, when it was found that the spirit
of destruction, which so widely prevails in the loose state of
society that exists in all new countries, had been at work.
Every one of the buildings at the falls had been burnt;
probably as much because it was in the power of some reckless
wanderer to work mischief, as for any other reason.
That the act was the result of some momentary impulse,
was evident in the circumstance that the mischief went no
further. Some of the machinery had been carried away,
however, to be set up in other places, on a principle that is
very widely extended through all border settlements, which
considers the temporary disuse of property as its virtual
abandonment.
It was a moment of pain and pleasure, strangely mingled,
when Willoughby and Maud reached the rocks, and got a
first view of the ancient Beaver Dam. All the buildings
remained, surprisingly little altered to the eye by the lapse
of years. The gates had been secured when they left the
place, in 1776; and the Hut, having no accessible external
windows, that dwelling remained positively intact. It is true,
quite half the palisadoes were rotted down; but the Hut,
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itself, had resisted the ravages of time. A fire had been
kindled against its side, but the stone walls had opposed an
obstacle to its ravages; and an attempt, by throwing a
brand upon the roof, had failed of its object, the shingles
not igniting. On examination, the lock of the inner gate
was still secure. The key had been found, and, on its application,
an entrance was obtained into the court.
What a moment was that, when Maud, fresh from the
luxuries of an English home, entered this long and well remembered
scene of her youth! Rank grases were growing
in the court, but they soon disappeared before the scythes
that had been brought, in expectation of the circumstance.
Then, all was clear for an examination of the house. The
Hut was exactly in the condition in which it had been left,
with the exception of a little, and a very little, dust collected
by time.
Maud was still in the bloom of womanhood, feminine,
beautiful, full of feeling, and as sincere as when she left
these woods, though her feelings were tempered a little by
intercourse with the world. She went from room to room,
hanging on Willoughby's arm, forbidding any to follow.
All the common furniture had been left in the house, in
expectation it would be inhabited again, ere many years;
and this helped to preserve the identity. The library was
almost entire; the bed-rooms, the parlours, and even the
painting-room, were found very much as they would have
appeared, after an absence of a few months. Tears flowed
in streams down the cheeks of Lady Willoughby, as she
went through room after room, and recalled to the mind of
her husband the different events of which they had been
the silent witnesses. Thus passed an hour or two of unutterable
tenderness, blended with a species of holy sorrow.
At the end of that time, the attendants, of whom many had
been engaged, had taken possession of the offices, &c., and
were bringing the Hut once more into a habitable condition.
Soon, too, a report was brought that the mowers, who had
been brought in anticipation of their services being wanted,
had cut a broad swathe to the ruins of the chapel, and the
graves of the family.
It was now near the setting of the sun, and the hour was
favourable for the melancholy duty that remained.
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Forbidding any to follow, Willoughby proceeded with Maud to
the graves. These had been dug within a little thicket of
shrubs, planted by poor Jamie Allen, under Maud's own
directions. She had then thought that the spot might one
day be wanted. These bushes, lilacs, and ceringos, had
grown to a vast size, in that rich soil. They completely
concealed the space within, an area of some fifty square
feet, from the observation of those without. The grass had
been cut over all, however, and an opening made by the
mowers gave access to the graves. On reaching this opening,
Willoughby started at hearing voices within the inclosure;
he was about to reprove the intruders, when Maud
pressed his arm, and whispered—
“Listen, Willoughby — those voices sound strangely to
my ears! We have heard them before.”
“I tell ye, Nick—ould Nicky, or Saucy Nick, or whatever's
yer name,” said one within in a strong Irish accent,
“that Jamie, the mason that was, is forenent ye, at this
minute, under that bit of a sod—and, it's his honour, and
Missus, and Miss Beuly, that is buried here. Och! ye 're
a cr'ature, Nick; good at takin' scalps, but ye knows nothin'
of graves; barrin' the quhantity ye 've helped to fill.”
“Good” — answered the Indian. “Cap'in here; squaw
here; darter here. Where son?—where t'other gal?”
“Here,” answered Willoughby, leading Maud within the
hedge. “I am Robert Willoughby, and this is Maud Meredith,
my wife.”
Mike fairly started; he even showed a disposition to seize
a musket which lay on the grass. As for the Indian, a tree
in the forest could not have stood less unmoved than he was
at this unexpected interruption. Then all four stood in silent
admiration, noting the changes which time had, more or
less, wrought in all.
Willoughby was in the pride of manhood. He had served
with distinction, and his countenance and frame both showed
it, though neither had suffered more than was necessary to
give him a high military air, and a look of robust vigour.
As for Maud, with her graceful form fully developed by her
riding-habit, her soft lineaments and polished expression, no
one would have thought her more than thirty, which was
ten years less than her real age. With Mike and Nick it
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was very different. Both had grown old, not only in fact,
but in appearance. The Irishman was turned of sixty, and
his hard, coarse-featured face, burnt as red as the sun in a
fog, by exposure and Santa Cruz, was getting to be wrinkled
and a little emaciated. Still, his frame was robust and
powerful. His attire was none of the best, and it was to
be seen at a glance that it was more than half military. In
point of fact, the poor fellow had been refused a reinlistment
in the army, on account of his infirmities and years, and
America was not then a country to provide retreats for her
veterans. Still, Mike had an ample pension for wounds,
and could not be said to be in want. He had suffered in
the same battle with Joyce, in whose company he had actually
been corporal O'Hearn, though his gallant commander
had not risen to fight again, as had been the case with the
subordinate.
Wyandotté exhibited still greater changes. He had seen
his threescore and ten years; and was fast falling into the
“sere and yellow leaf.” His hair was getting grey, and
his frame, though still active and sinewy, would have yielded
under the extraordinary marches he had once made. In
dress, there was nothing to remark; his ordinary Indian
attire being in as good condition as was usual for the man.
Willoughby thought, however, that his eye was less wild
than when he knew him before; and every symptom of intemperance
had vanished, not only from his countenance,
but his person.
From the moment Willoughby appeared, a marked change
came over the countenance of Nick. His dark eye, which
still retained much of its brightness, turned in the direction
of the neighbouring chapel, and he seemed relieved when a
rustling in the bushes announced a footstep. There had not
been another word spoken when the lilacs were shoved aside,
and Mr. Woods, a vigorous little man, in a green old age,
entered the area. Willoughby had not seen the chaplain
since they parted at Albany, and the greetings were as warm
as they were unexpected.
“I have lived a sort of hermit's life, my dear Bob, since
the death of your blessed parents,” said the divine, clearing
his eyes of tears; “now and then cheered by a precious
letter from yourself and Maud—I call you both by the names
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I gave you both in baptism—and it was, `I, Maud, take
thee, Robert,' when you stood before the altar in that little
edifice—you will pardon me if I am too familiar with a general
officer and his lady”—
“Familiar!” exclaimed both in a breath;—and Maud's
soft, white hand was extended towards the chaplain, with
reproachful earnestness—“We, who were made Christians
by you, and who have so much reason to remember and
love you always!”
“Well, well; I see you are Robert and Maud, still”—
dashing streaming tears from his eyes now. “Yes, I did
bring you both into God's visible church on earth, and you
were baptised by one who received his ordination from the
Archbishop of Canterbury himself,”—Maud smiled a little
archly—“and who has never forgotten his ordination vows,
as he humbly trusts. But you are not the only Christians
I have made—I now rank Nicholas among the number”—
“Nick!” interrupted Sir Robert—“Wyandotté!” added
his wife, with a more delicate tact.
“I call him Nicholas, now, since he was christened by
that name—there is no longer a Wyandotté, or a Saucy
Nick. Major Willoughby, I have a secret to communicate—
I beg pardon, Sir Robert—but you will excuse old habits—
if you will walk this way.”
Willoughby was apart with the chaplain a full half-hour,
during which time Maud wept over the graves, the rest standing
by in respectful silence. As for Nick, a stone could
scarcely have been more fixed than his attitude. Nevertheless,
his mien was rebuked, his eye downcast; even his
bosom was singularly convulsed. He knew that the chaplain
was communicating to Willoughby the manner in which
he had slain his father. At length, the gentlemen returned
slowly towards the graves; the general agitated, frowning,
and flushed. As for Mr. Woods, he was placid and full of
hope. Willoughby had yielded to his expostulations and
arguments a forgiveness, which came reluctantly, and perhaps
as much for the want of a suitable object for retaliation,
as from a sense of christian duty.
“Nicholas,” said the chaplain, “I have told the general
all.”
“He know him!” cried the Indian, with startling energy.
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[figure description] Page 200.[end figure description]
“I do, Wyandotté; and sorry have I been to learn it.
You have made my heart bitter.”
Nick was terribly agitated. His youthful and former
opinions maintained a fearful struggle with those which had
come late in life; the result being a wild admixture of his
sense of Indian justice, and submission to the tenets of his
new, and imperfectly-comprehended faith. For a moment,
the first prevailed. Advancing, with a firm step, to the
general, he put his own bright and keen tomahawk into the
other's hands, folded his arms on his bosom, bowed his head
a little, and said, firmly—
“Strike—Nick kill cap'in—Major kill Nick.”
“No, Tuscarora, no,” answered Sir Robert Willoughby,
his whole soul yielding before this act of humble submission—
“May God in heaven forgive the deed, as I now forgive
you.”
There was a wild smile gleaming on the face of the Indian;
he grasped both hands of Willoughby in his own.
He then muttered the words, “God forgive,” his eye rolled
upward at the clouds, and he fell dead on the grave of his
victim. It was thought, afterwards, that agitation had accelerated
the crisis of an incurable affection of the heart.
A few minutes of confusion followed. Then Mike, bare-headed,
his old face flushed and angry, dragged from his
pockets a string of strange-looking, hideous objects, and laid
them by the Indian's side. They were human scalps, collected
by himself, in the course of many campaigns, and brought,
as a species of hecatomb, to the graves of the fallen.
“Out upon ye, Nick!” he cried. “Had I known the like
of that, little would I have campaigned in yer company!
Och! 't was an undacent deed, and a hundred confessions
would barely wipe it from yer sowl. It's a pity, too, that
ye've died widout absolution from a praist, sich as I've
tould ye off. Barrin' the brache of good fellieship, I could
have placed yer own scalp wid the rest, as a p'ace-offering,
to his Honour, the Missus and Miss Beuly—”
“Enough,” interrupted Sir Robert Willoughby, with an
authority of manner that Mike's military habits could not
resist; “the man has repented, and is forgiven. Maud,
love, it is time to quit this melancholy scene; occasions will
offer to revisit it.”
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[figure description] Page 201.[end figure description]
In the end, Mr. Woods took possession of the Hut, as a
sort of hermitage, in which to spend the remainder of his
days. He had toiled hard for the conversion of Nick, in
gratitude for the manner in which he had fought in defence
of the females. He now felt as keen a desire to rescue
the Irishman from the superstitions of what he deemed an
error quite as fatal as heathenism. Mike consented to pass
the remainder of his days at the Knoll, which was to be,
and in time, was, renovated, under their joint care.
Sir Robert and Lady Willoughby passed a month in the
valley. Nick had been buried within the bushes; and even
Maud had come to look upon this strange conjunction of
graves, with the eye of a Christian, blended with the tender
regrets of a woman. The day that the general and his
wife left the valley for ever, they paid a final visit to the
graves. Here Maud wept for an hour. Then her husband,
passing an arm around her waist, drew her gently away;
saying, as they were quitting the inclosure—
“They are in Heaven, dearest — looking down in love,
quite likely, on us, the objects of so much of their earthly
affection. As for Wyandotté, he lived according to his
habits and intelligence, and happily died under the convictions
of a conscience directed by the lights of divine grace.
Little will the deeds of this life be remembered, among
those who have been the true subjects of its blessed influence.
If this man were unmerciful in his revenge, he also
remembered my mother's kindnesses, and bled for her and
her daughters. Without his care, my life would have
remained unblessed with your love, my ever-precious Maud!
He never forgot a favour, or forgave an injury.”
THE END.
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[figure description] Advertisement.[end figure description]
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[figure description] Advertisement.[end figure description]
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Philadelphia, December, 1842.
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[figure description] Advertisement.[end figure description]
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1843.
ANY WORK SOLD SEPARATEL
Cooper, James Fenimore, 1789-1851 [1843], Wyandotte, or, The hutted knoll, volume 2 (Lea & Blanchard, Philadelphia) [word count] [eaf073v2].
