CHAPTER XII. A NIGHT IN THE WHOOPING HOLLOW.
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“Then sweet the hour that brings release
From danger and from toil,
We talk the battle over,
And share the battle's spoil.”
Song of Marion's Men.
“A gentle arm entwines her form, a voice is in her ear,
Which even in death's cold grasp itself 'twould win her back to
hear;
Now happy is that Santee maid, and proudly bless'd is he,
And in her face the tear and smile are strangely sweet to see.”
Simms.
The Whooping Hollow lay now directly in their
route to Fort George, and thither the footsteps of
the fugitives were directed. The Dew was faint
from hunger, and the weary spirits of Greyslaer
were anything but cheered by the desolate scene of
that swampy-shored lake, with here and there a
dead tree waving the long moss from its gray arms
as it stood solitary amid the half-floating bog. All
concern for himself, however, was forgotten in distressing
anxiety for his companion.
They had still eight or ten miles to travel to reach
Fort William Henry, and the day was nearly spent.
But now a new source of interest presents itself to
stimulate his nerves. He hears a distant volley of
firearms, followed by a broken but rapid discharge,
as of a running fight beyond the hills. It nears
him, and he fancies he can hear the rallying shout
of white combatants mingling hoarsely with the
shrill yell of Indian onslaught. Unarmed as he is,
Greyslaer bounds forward, as if to aid those of his
own blood, who, it would seem, are borne down in
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the battle. He turns to give one look to his companion.
The languid eyes of the Iroquois girl kindle
with new life as she motions to him to leave
her to her fate and rush forward.
But now, again, another volley, another shout,
and then the Indian whoop grows fainter and fainter,
as of men scattered and fleeing in pursuit. He listens
intently, but the sounds of the battle have died
away in the distance.
The twilight has come, the night closes in, and
again the moon marches up the heavens to cheer
the wanderers, if, indeed, her ghastly light, shining
down among those haggard trees, and gleaming upon
the pool that has settled in that dreary hollow, have
aught of cheering in it. The gentle-souled Greyslaer
looks often into the deep and languid eyes of
the suffering and innocent-hearted girl who has
dared and endured so much for him. He blames
himself for having permitted her to encounter the
perils they have undergone; not the least of which,
that of starvation in the wilderness, they are now
beginning to realize. The fort, it is true, is not
far; but will The Dew have strength to reach it on
the morrow?
He has made her a couch of fern and leaves,
where the cradling roots of an ancient birch supply
her mossy pillow; and now she shrinks not from
his ministering care as he sits near, watching till
her eyes be closed in slumber. But hark! there
are other human sounds in the forest besides the cry
of the whooping savage or the distant din of border
conflict. Can it be a crew of merry-makers, or is
it only the echoes of the place which wake in chorus
to the song now trolled along the hillside:
“Room, boys, room, by the light of the moon,
Oh why shouldn't every man enjoy his own room?
Enough in the green wood, if not in the hall,
By the light of the moon there's enough for us all.”
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“Hist! hallo there, white man! where the devil
do you come from?” cried the foremost of the forest
choir, advancing from under the boughs into the
moonlight, and levelling his rifle upon Greyslaer as
he spoke. “King or Congress! Speak up, my
good fellow, if you've got a tongue.”
“De Roos!”
“Whose voice is that? Good God! Max Greyslaer,
is it your living self that I hold in my arms?”
And the impetuous brother of Alida—for it was no
other than Derrick himself—drew back from the
embrace of Greyslaer, into which he had thrown
himself, to look earnestly into the wan features of
his long-lost friend. Their aspect of suffering filled
him with emotions which he could only conceal in
part, as, turning round, he shouted to his comrades,
“Balt, Lansingh, Miller, carry on, men, carry on.
Here are more wonders in the woods to-night than
those we've yet dreamed of.”
But Balt had heard the first joyful cry of recognition
between the friends, and was already hugging
Greyslaer in his arms with an unceremonious
vigour, that sensibly reminded Greyslaer of De
Roos's unfortunate speech, assimilating him to a
bear, which had once given such deep offence to the
worthy woodsman. The salutations of the other
hunters, though, of course, less familiar, were hardly
less hearty, as Balt stood by and proudly encouraged
them to come up and take the hand of his old
pupil.
“Didn't I tell ye, boys,” said he, “that young
Max would come to hand the right side up? Alive?
eh! only look at the young springald. Thin and
raw-boned as he is, there's life enough in him to
squeeze it out of any of us. Law sorts, Capting
Max, how your shoulders have spread; and your
face, too, is as brown as Kit Lansingh's here. Kit,
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you land-lougher, stand up and measure heights
with the capting.”
But Greyslaer had turned away, and was bending
with anxious solicitude over a figure that had
hitherto escaped the notice of his friends. “Some
water, Balt; quickly, in the name of Heaven, quickly,
old man. She faints, she faints,” said Greyslaer,
in tones of almost agonizing solicitude, as he
supported the sinking head of The Dew upon his
bosom. “Ah! they'll be an age in returning from
the lake. Your canteen, De Roos; a drop from
that may yet revive her.”
De Roos tore the canteen from his side; and, as
Max applied the cordial to her lips, the maid opened
her eyes.
“Have you no refreshment—a single biscuit in
your pouch?” asked Greyslaer.
“Here's a corn-cake, captain,” said a hunter,
handing a fragment of the coarse bread to Greyslaer.
“Yes, and we can soon get you up plenty of venison,”
cried Lansingh, who now returned from the
lake-side with the water, for which two or three of
his comrades had simultaneously rushed together.
“Off, then, with you at once, Kit,” rejoined Balt,
who now came puffing and blowing up the hill.
“We must needs camp here, I take it; for the gal's
state won't allow her removal to-night. Who'd a'
guessed, though, of finding a petticoat here with
the capting?”
“Carry on, boys, carry on, then; get up your shanties
as soon as may be,” said De Roos, while those
of the hunters who had not gone off with Lansingh
after the remains of the deer upon which they had
already feasted, bestirred themselves on every side.
Some cut stakes and rafters for the frame of the
wigwam; some peeled the heavy bark from ancient
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hemlocks, which, though prostrate upon the ground,
had not yet mouldered; spreading the broad pieces
over the roof and adown the sides; while others
strewed the floor of the shanty with the fragrant
branches shorn from the living tree, after felling it
for the purpose of being thus stripped. Some busied
themselves in kindling a fire before the opening
of this sylvan shed, while the forest resounded with
the stroke of the axe, as others felled the hard-wood
trees, chopped them up, and piled them near to feed
the growing flame when wanted.
Greyslaer, in the mean time, now that his anxiety
about “The Dew” was relieved, summarily detailed
his principal adventures, speaking always of
the disinterested and heroic Indian girl in terms
that would have deepened even the colour of her
red cheek could she have understood the language
in which they were uttered. De Roos, in return,
gave him information of both a public and private
nature which claimed his deepest interest.
“But tell me, De Roos,” cried Greyslaer, “how
came you in these woods with old Balt?”
“With old Balt? Why, an hour since, I believed
truly that he was a hundred miles from here, as I
did that you, dear Max, were enjoying the hospitality
of our refugee friends in Canada. Balt must tell
you himself how he came here; for I deferred hearing
his story till we gained his camp, whither he was
conducting me when I fell in with you.”
“But yourself; how came you here yourself?”
“Oh, why, you know, we are only a few miles
from the fort; so it's no great wonder that I should
be here. Van Schaick sent me yesterday to look
after some batteaux at Glen's Falls, which are sent
up from below for the transportation of the baggage
of the command which, you know, has been relieved.”
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“I know? How should I know anything about
the matter, or imagine, even, that you were at Fort
George, or who, indeed, was its commandant?”
“True, ay, true; I forgot how you have been
cooped up in these stirring times. Well, you see,
as I was about to mention, an incidental part of
my duty led me back to the lake by this route,
which is only a few miles longer to the fort. Gansevoort,
our lieutenant-colonel, got some information
from Albany a day or two since about that cutthroat
Tory, Joe Bettys, who—”
“Joe Bettys, the cutthroat Tory!” cried Greyslaer,
echoing his words in astonishment. “What,
not Ensign Joe Bettys, who was so ardent a Whig,
albeit a boon companion and crony of the Tory
Bradshawe?”
“The same man, Max; and a brave Whig, too,
he proved himself under Arnold in Canada. But,
either from some disgust with our officers, or an
original want of principle, he has been won over to
the other side, and commenced his Tory career in
a dashing style, that must make him long remembered
in these parts. He is said to have taken up
his quarters here in the Whooping Hollow, and,
assuming the disguise of a mongrel mountebank,
an outcast Indian vagrant, whom he killed, he has
practised so successfully upon the superstitious
fears of the people below, that they would make no
effort to follow and seize him upon his retreating
here after some deed of blood or plunder. So I
took an Indian guide, and came poking through here
to see if I could beat up his quarters in passing, or,
at least, light upon his trail.”
“And you fell in with Balt—”
“Just in time to lend a volley which saved him
from a devil of a licking; for he and his handful of
hunters were mad enough to engage with a score
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of Mohawks, led on, as I suspect, by Isaac Brant,
or Au-neh-yesh, as he calls himself.”
“Isaac Brant? Why, I have already told you
that I left him upon the shores of a lake far west of
this, a dying man, as I thought, and—”
“Ay, but that was some six months' since, if I understood
you rightly; and I assure you he is bloody
Isaac Redivivus now. Everybody has nine lives
in these times. Isaac I know at least to be alive
and kicking; for, with Kasselman Empie and other
scoundrelly Tories who fight under the disguise of
Indians, he makes as much noise in this neighbourhood
as his father, with fifty times the number of
men, is creating along the Unadilla region. There
is, though, a touch of humanity about old Joseph
that his son is wholly innocent off.”
“And you think, then, that Isaac's tribesmen, who
were in pursuit of me, guided him hither to-night?”
“Even so.”
“But the friendly Indian who was your pioneer
to the Hollow, I don't see him here.”
“He loitered behind, where I left my corporal to
bury some two or three brave fellows whom I have
lost by this night's business. By-the-way, it is our
old boyish friend Teondetha. The Tryon county
committee sent him as a runner to Albany, whence
he was despatched with the message to the fort, requiring
the presence of our regiment to overawe the
Tories on the Mohawk. But here comes Miller
and his men. You put those brave boys to bed
safely, Miller?”
“Safely and snugly, captain; neither wolves nor
Indians will trouble them, I reckon,” replied the corporal,
touching his hat.
“Where's the Oneida?”
“He cleared out as soon as he had taken the hair
of the Redskins that fell on the other side. I
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mistrust he has followed on to see if he couldn't add another
scalp to his string.”
“It's the natur of all of them,” ejaculated Balt;
“dog eating dog. He must have had good picking,
too, among the dead varmint, Adam; for there they
lay on the grass, six big buck Injuns, likely fellows
all, besides a withered chap that I clipped
over with my hatchet, and left to curl up and die.”
“And the boy,” said De Roos, without heeding
Balt's words, in a slight tone of anxiety; “you saw
nothing of the boy, Adam?”
“Nothing, captain! The brat was missing from
the moment we came in sight of the enemy. Isaac's
people must have swooped him up in a moment;
and he doubtless was glad enough to go with them.”
“What boy is that you speak of?” asked Greyslaer,
with some anxiety.
“Nobody—nothing—only a half-breed brat that
we picked up on our march. Near the falls, wasn't
it, Miller?”
“Yes, captain, in the shanty at the batteaux landing
which you visited when we went down afore,
you know. That time, I mean, when you had high
words with the old woman, because you said you
knew better when she declared that the child ought
rightfully to belong to Isaac Brant, whose son he
was, and when—”
“Silence, sir,” commanded De Roos, who seemed
both irritated and annoyed by the loquacity of
his non-commissioned officer. “There was no
child there at the time, you know well, Miller.”
“Certing! there was not, capting; but you know
you asked when next he would be there, or his
mother, I forget which.”
“Well, well, it's no matter what you forget, so
you don't forget your duty, which no one can accuse
you of, my brave fellow. And now let your
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men build another fire for themselves, for here come
the hunters with something to make a broil of.”
Greyslaer, in the mean time, had listened to this
dialogue with an interest much beyond that of ordinary
curiosity. The early dissipation of Mad
Dirk de Roos, as his friend was universally called
when they were college mates together, was not
unknown to him; for, though younger than Derrick,
yet, being of a graver and more earnest character,
he had often taken upon himself the duty of an
older person in lecturing his hair-brained chum.
He recollected well that, during one of their vacation
visits to the Hawksnest, the scandal of the
country people had associated De Roos's name with
that of a beautiful squaw, whom those connected
with the Indian office at Guy Park said was betrothed
to Isaac Brant. He remembered, too, that,
one Christmas morning, Guy Johnson rode over to
the Hawksnest with a magistrate, who was at the
Park enjoying the hospitality of the season, and
closeted themselves with his guardian, De Roos's
father, upon business which, though deemed by the
family to be of a political nature, had filled him with
anxiety for his friend, who was absent at the time.
And more facts and reminiscences equally linked
together, and having the bearing of strong circumstantial
evidence upon this delicate matter, might
have suggested themselves to Greyslaer's mind, had
he not suddenly been startled from his painful musings
by a wild cry of joy from The Dew as Teondetha
suddenly presented himself in the light of the
fire before her.
The maid recoiled abashed and agitated the instant
she had uttered this natural outbreak of her
feelings, while Teondetha, who, with noiseless step,
had approached to light his calumet by the fire,
started erect from his stooping posture, and gazed
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with eagle glance around. But the girl had sunk
back upon the pile of brush upon which she was reclining
in one corner of the shanty, and the tall spire of
flame which shot up between them prevented her for
a moment from being seen by her lover. De Roos,
in high spirits, as usual, was busy superintending
the preparations for supper at the different fires,
and joking with the men grouped around them as
he restlessly moved to and fro from one to the other.
Greyslaer alone had his eye upon the Indian pair,
and, as he now fully understood their language, he
was not a little amused with the cool generalship
with which the Oneida made his advances.
“My sister,” said Teondetha, seating himself on
a log near the opening of the shanty, the moment
he discovered the vicinity of his lady-love; “how
is it with her?”
“As with the bird that has been driven from its
nest, and knows not where to alight. As with the
sunbeam that drops into the forest, and finds no sister
ray to receive and mingle with her beneath its
chilling leaves.”
“Teondetha is the tree whereon the bird would
alight.[6] His bosom is the fountain that would send
back a ray to mingle with the sunbeam. Teondetha
is a great warrior. He must build a lodge of
his own, wherein to hang up the scalps of his enemies.
Who will be there to light the pipe of the
young chief?”
The girl, so far from shrinking at sight of the
gory trophies at his belt, gazed now admiringly upon
them as her half-savage lover held them up to her
eyes.
“The young chief has earned a right to smoke
before the women,” she said. “The Dew will not
extinguish his pipe when he lights it.”
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“Good!” said the copper-coloured gallant; and,
bending over the coals, he carelessly swept up one
with his hand, and dropped it into the bowl of his
pipe. He puffed away calmly for a few moments,
while his thoughts seemed occupied only in watching
the smoke-wreaths that circled around him.
“What sees my brother in the smoke?” asked
the girl, after watching her taciturn wooer for a
while.
“A bird,” replied the Indian, gravely.
The girl smiled, was silent for a moment, and
then looking down rather demurely, and pulling to
pieces the twigs whereon she sat, asked,
“What says the bird to my brother?”
“It says that Teondetha is a tree whose leaves
will only flourish by The Spreading Dew.”
The girl laughed outright (girls will laugh!), but
the solemn composure of her companion seemed
nowise disturbed by her merriment. The laugh,
however, ceased at once, without subsiding into a
titter.
“And what does my brother see now?” she resumed,
so soon as she had recovered her sobriety.
“He sees a beaver.”
“And what says the beaver?”
“The beaver reminds him of a promise which
The Dew made many moons ago, off by the yellow
waters that flow from Garoga Lake. The beaver
says that those of his tribe who have no lodge become
worthless castaways. `Teondetha,' says the
beaver, `let not The Dew go out of your sight again
till you have built one for both of you.”'
“The beaver is never foolish,” murmured the
girl.
A heavy puff of smoke from the fire at that moment
wrapped the lovers from Greyslaer's sight, and
he could not see whether the Indian pair sealed this
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important passage of their courtship with the impress
that fairer wooers would perhaps have used;
but, as the smoke cleared away, he thought that he
distinguished The Dew withdrawing her little hand
from that of Teondetha, who had slightly changed
his position.
“Carry on, carry on,” cried De Roos, at this moment,
inviting all parties to supper in his favourite
phrase, which, like the “push along, keep moving,”
of English farce, or the “go ahead” of modern
American slang, served him alike upon all occasions,
and was equally in requisition whether at
feast or fray.
Greyslaer, who had eaten nothing, as yet, save a
biscuit which he got from the knapsack of a slain
soldier, upon which he had been seated near the fire,
was sufficiently sharp-set to fall to with a keen relish
of the fare now placed before him.
“There's the cup by your side, capting, if it's that
ye're looking for. Lean over, now, with your cracker
here, till I put this slice of venison upon it. It's
done to a crisis, I tell ye; brown on the outside,
and juicy red within. The crittur himself would
be tempted to taste one of his own cutlets, if he
were of a flesh-faring natur. There, now, add the
salt and pepper fixings, and the king himself hasn't
a slicker supper. Never mind the squaw, never
mind the squaw, capting; Scalpy yonder will look
after her.” And running on thus while he acted as
cook, butler, and waiter for Greyslaer, old Balt,
ever on the alert to serve him, eyed his pupil at intervals
with an affectionate interest, as if it cheered
his very heart to see the half-famished wanderer
relishing this rude entertainment.
“Ah, capting,” he resumed, “but Miss Alida will
be glad to see you. We've had some rare doings
in the valley since you were missed from among us.
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Sir John, as you mayhap know, broke his parole
and cleared out for Canada, after being stolen off
by old Joseph, who cut his way at midnight through
the streets of Johnstown in taking him from the
Hall. Folks talk hard of the baronet for leaving as
he did; but Balt could have told them something
which would prove he was not so much to blame.
He thought he wasn't safe, he did, after the killing
of Mr. Fenton during the armistice between the
Whigs and Tories. But Mr. Fenton, you know,
sought his own death; and, sorry as I was for it,
how could I help smashing him as I did? You
don't think I could, capting?”
“It was a bad business, Balt; but, according to
the account which Captain De Roos gave me tonight,
you were certainly not to blame.”
“I mistrust I wasn't—I raaly hope not; but Mr.
Fenton was a fine man, a likely man, capting, and it
was some comfort to me to give him Christian burial.
I sent home his watch, and what little money
he had about him, to his family; and the two or three
papers I found in his pocket I kept till you should
come back to tell me what to do about them. What
else could I? I never had book-larnin enough to
read written hand, and I didn't know but what the
papers might hold political matters of some valu to
our friends; yet I was afeard to give them to strangers
to read, lest there might be private things in
them about Mr. Fenton's folks that the family would
not like to have go abroad.”
“Where are the papers now?” asked Greyslaer.
“Miss Alida sealed them up for me, and put them
away in the old brass beaufet at the Hawksnest;
but she looked, oh! so sad when I told her that they
must stay there till you came hum, that I was sorry
I had not still continued to carry them about in my
shooting-pouch with me. But how did I know but
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that I should leave my pouch and scalp both among
these wild hills?”
“You did most rightly, Balt,” said Greyslaer,
not untouched by these proofs of the just sense of
propriety which seemed to govern the simple woodsman.
“But see, that tired girl has already dropped
her head upon her arm, as if sleep had overtaken
her. Let us withdraw from the neighbourhood of
the shanty to the other fire, and see what disposition
of us Captain De Roos proposes for the night.”
“Yes, and there's the Oneida stretched like a
hound upon the edge of the ashes, so that no one
can enter the shanty without stepping over him. It
is but judgmatical for us to look for a snoozing-place
elsewhere.”
De Roos, however, when they joined his party a
few yards off, seemed to have no idea of any one's
seeking their rest so soon. He had just relieved
the sentinels who had been posted here and there
in the woods around, and the rest of his half-disciplined
followers were ready enough to unite with
Balt's hunters in the chorus, as the mad captain
again broke out in the song with which he had first
waked the echoes of the forest round about, and
which he had originally learned from old Balt himself.
Greyslaer, however, borrowing a blanket from
one of the soldiers, was permitted to forego a part
in this midnight saturnalia of the forest; for his plea
of excessive weariness was admitted when De Roos
remembered that they must reach Fort George early
on the morrow, if they would have a place in the
column when his regiment took up their line of
march. The wayworn heir of the Hawksnest was
soon plunged in deep slumber; but the words of
the following song ever and anon mingled in his
dreams, as the woodland revellers bore down merrily
in the chorus.
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1.
There was an old hunter camped down by the kill,
Who fished in this water and shot on that hill;
The forest for him had no danger nor gloom,
For all that he wanted was plenty of room.
Says he, “The world's wide, there is room for us all;
Room enough in the green wood, if not in the hall.”
Room, boys, room, by the light of the moon,
For why shouldn't every man enjoy his own room?
2.
He wove his own mats, and his shanty was spread
With the skins he had dressed and stretched out overhead;
The branches of hemlock, piled deep on the floor,
Was his bed as he sung when the daylight was o'er,
“The world's wide enough, there is room for us all;
Room enough in the green wood, if not in the hall.”
Room, boys, room, by the light of the moon,
For why shouldn't every man enjoy his own room?
3.
That spring, half choked up by the dust of the road,
Through a grove of tall maples once limpidly flowed;
By the rock whence it bubbles his kettle was hung
Which their sap often filled, while the hunter he sung,
“The world's wide enough, there is room for us all;
Room enough in the green wood, if not in the hall.”
Room, boys, room, by the light of the moon,
For why shouldn't every man enjoy his own room?
4.
And still sung the hunter—when one gloomy day
He saw in the forest what saddened his lay,
'Twas the rut which a heavy-wheeled wagon had made,
Where the greensward grows thick in the broad forest glade—
“The world's wide enough, there is room for us all;
Room enough in the green wood, if not in the hall.”
Room, boys, room, by the light of the moon,
For why shouldn't every man enjoy his own room?
5.
He whistled his dog, and says he, “We can't stay;
I must shoulder my rifle, up traps, and away.”
Next day, mid those maples, the settler's axe rung,
While slowly the hunter trudged off as he sung,
“The world's wide enough, there is room for us all;
Room enough in the green wood, if not in the hall.”
Room, boys, room, by the light of the moon,
For why shouldn't every man enjoy his own room?
eaf153v2.n6[6] The meaning of Teondetha is “a fallen tree.”
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Hoffman, Charles Fenno, 1806-1884 [1840], A romance of the Mohawk. Volume 2 (Harper & Brothers, New York) [word count] [eaf153v2].
