So much for the past. We have said that Julia, in her
obliviousness of the present, only strove to penetrate the
future. For hours she mused in silence. Would she see
the young graduates upon the margin of one of the bright
lakes embowered in the wilderness? Would they lead her
to the wild summit of the mountain, whence the eye might
distinguish objects dimly in the distance? Would they not
CHAPTER II.
A FIRESIDE STORY—THAYENDANEGEA—PADDY'S BLUNDER.
The fog of the morning having been dispelled by the
glorious sun in a cloudless sky, and the road leading mostly
through a level country until it passed the northern limits
of the present Mercer county, our travellers accomplished
what was deemed a good day's journey long before the approach
of darkness. Paddy Pence had not spared his
horses, nor had Thomas Schooley restrained his hand, until
they came in view of the beautiful valley in Hunterdon
county, in which the famous log tavern of John Ringo was
situated, and where it had been determined to rest the first
night.
Paddy was now ordered to permit the horses to fall into
a gentler pace, for they exhibited symptoms of weariness,
and one of them had loosened a shoe.
The travellers gazed with delight at the beautiful aspect
of the country as they descended into the valley, which,
however, became wilder in its features as they progressed.
The settlements were perceptibly farther apart, and the
forest was but slightly variegated by cultivated fields.
Majestic oaks, and tall pines, and budding chestnuts, from
which the squirrel's joyous cry and the songs of happy
birds were heard incessantly, almost constantly surrounded
them. In the dim distance on the left Thomas pointed to
the blue outline of the Musconetcong Mountain; and on
either hand they had occasional glimpses of mills situated
on the crystal streams flowing toward the Delaware River,
some ten miles distant.
“Plase yer honour,” said Paddy, drawing the reins
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suddenly and causing the horses to stand perfectly still, “what
sort of a baste is that?”
“Baste, Patrick? Oh, you mean beast!”
“Yis, yer honour, I mane baste, and it's as ugly a crather
as my eyes iver beheld. One end is under the stone, and
the other swags backwards and forwards, and jangles like
wee sleigh-bells wid their clappers broken.”
“Patrick,” said Thomas, descending from the carriage,
“that is a snake—a rattlesnake!”
“Och, the baste!” cried Paddy, who had likewise descended
from his seat; but he ran back hastily, and leaped
upon the box, where he sat shivering with terror.
“Drive on, Patrick, and let Mary and Julia see
him. He is nearly dead. Some one has cast a stone
on his head,” continued Thomas, who had been joined by
Richard.
“Och, murther!” cried Paddy, making an involuntary
movement, as if to turn the horses in the opposite direction.
“Plase yer honour, let's go back agin! That baste will be
the death of poor Paddy Pence! They tould me I'd find
sich divils of blackguard bastes in the same country with
the nagers, and that they'd ate me up in the garden, and
swaller me down on horseback.”
Mr. Schooley chided his coachman for using such language;
and, being joined by Julia, whose curiosity overcame
her fears, he made Richard stand upon the stone,
and, stooping down, dispossessed the snake, which was a
pretty large one, of his rattles. He likewise explained
to his ward the very natural affright of Paddy, who was
a recent importation, and had never beheld a serpent
before.
“Be the powers, if yer honour aint afraid to take hould
of the baste with your naked hands, Paddy Pence is not
the boy to hould back on his high box.” And so Paddy
urged his horses—which pricked up their ears and snorted
repeatedly—beyond the snake.
“Patrick, my friend,” said Mr. Schooley, with much
gravity, “thee must not swear. Thee must read the third
chapter of James.”
“Och, yer honour, I'm a thrue Jacobite, and there's
niver a bit of danger that I'll take the oath against the
rightful—”
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“Ha! ha! He will never understand thee,” said Julia,
laughing heartily.
“Och, but I will, my beautiful young mistress,” continued
Paddy; “and I'll die, but I'll sarve him faithfully;
for, of all the masters it's iver been my lot to own, niver a
divil of 'em called me friend before.”
“Patrick, thee misunderstands me. I am a loyal subject
of George. But I meant thy profane swearing.”
“Be my sowl, I wouldn't be guilty of such a thing in
yer prisence.”
“Thou hast done it twice already, Patrick.”
“Then I beg yer honour's and the ladies' pardons; for,
be my life, I didn't know it, and I hope yer honour will
tache me betther manners.”
“I will strive to do so, Patrick. And thee must remember
to swear not at all. But thee must read the New
Testament.”
“I thank yer honour, and I'll try and remimber not to
forgit what you say; but, yer honour, I darsn't rade the
Tistament widout permission of the praist.”
“It is a great pity, Patrick, that thou hast been bred in
such ignorance of thy rights; but, if thou wilt read, thou
wilt learn all about the precious privilege which is the
birthright of every one.
“If yer honour advises it, I will larn what Saint James
ses about swearing, which is a foul-mouthed practice. But
there is one difficulty, yer honour.”
“I tell thee there can be none where there is a will.”
“I mane, yer honour, that divil a bit was I iver taught
to rade! There agin! I see yer honour is offinded at the
mintion of the blackguard! But, pardon me, yer honour,
till I larn betther the nixt time.”
The horses crept along slowly, and Mr. Schooley remained
on foot, declining to re-enter the carriage.
Julia and Richard, proceeding more briskly, were soon
several hundred paces in advance, and appeared to be much
interested with the objects which met their view.
“I am glad to see thee joyful, Julia,” said the young
man, when he perceived a smile upon the fair face of his
companion, as she stooped ever and anon to observe a
severed wild-flower, to which she evidently attached a signification
incomprehensible to Richard.
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“There is a freshness in the air, Richard, a perfume in
the wild-flowers, a grandeur and sublimity in the woods and
hills, never known in cities or densely-peopled districts,
and irresistibly productive of an exhilaration of spirits.”
“I wish I could feel it!” said he, sighing. “Even the
hieroglyphics on the tree by the snake—the Indian marks—
seemed to be interesting to thee, while to me they were
without meaning. I wish some one would teach me to
enjoy the things which afford thee pleasure, and also the
way to please thee.”
“Oh, don't sigh, Richard! The things which please
my fancy would be considered frivolus by thy father, and
no doubt he has long since taught thee to regard them as
he does.”
“No, no, Julia; if any thing I could do might appear
pleasing in thy sight, I would not deem it frivolous.”
“I thank thee, Richard. You were ever kind to me.
I am sensible of your goodness, and of your father's indulgence
to a wayward orphan. I am striving to conform
to his rules. I have learned his manner of speech—”
“And it sounds like music from thy lips.”
“Why, Richard, thou hast been learning to compliment
a poor maiden after the fashion of the world!”
“Nay, Julia, it was the untutored impulse of my
heart!”
“Then nature was the model for poets! And, truly, thy
father never encouraged thee to be enraptured of sweet
sounds. Nevertheless, I am the more thankful for the
compliment as it cannot be a vain and empty one. Thou
didst ask me what would give me pleasure. Flowers and
birds. Gather the first on the hills, and Paddy Pence will
cultivate them for me; and entice the birds into the garden,
rather than frighten them away, as thy father did in Burlington.
But how can I repay thee? What meanest thou
by such incessant sighing?”
“How repay me? One smile is enough—but I—I
declare to thee I do not know what I do! I will strive to
correct the fault of sighing.”
“Do, Richard. I would like to see thee cheerful. Stay!
don't trample upon them!” she added, quickly, as her
companion's foot was suspended over a collection of blossoms
of various hues.
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“They were plucked, Julia, by some one unknown to us.
Thee seems to study them as if thou wert superstitious.”
“I am a little superstitious, Richard,” said she, smiling,
as she collected the blossoms and enjoyed their perfume.
The next moment they were joined by Mr. Schooley and
overtaken by the carriage. They were in front of Ringo's
log tavern, where they were welcomed heartily.
The shades of evening, and the descending dew, even in
May, made the blazing logs in the broad fireplace productive
both of a cheerful aspect and a congenial temperature.
Our travellers, therefore, after a hearty repast, collected
in front of the broad, glowing hearth.
“Come in, Patrick,” said Mr. Schooley, seeing his man
at the door, “and eat thy supper. I suppose thee has fed
the horses?”
“Plase yer honour, not yit. I was in a quandary.”
“My man Jake's got the ager,” said Mr. Ringo, the
host, “or he'd a' done it.”
“I told thee, Patrick,” said Mr. Schooley, “to give
them corn in the ear.* In that way they are not likely
to eat too fast and become foundered. Do you not understand
me, Patrick?”
“Yes, yer honour,” said Paddy, bowing and withdrawing.
But in a few moments he reappeared with a bewildered
look.
“Well,” said Mr. Schooley, “thee has fed them?”
“Plase yer honour, the horses have good enough tathe
in their mouths, but divil the one could I find in their ears.
And how could I fade 'em, as yer honour tould me, when
they wouldn't ate wid their ears, but snatched it wid their
tathe.”
In the laughter which followed this blunder of Paddy's
even the staid Mary and the melancholy Richard participated.
Paddy, as we have said, was a recent importation,
and had never seen any corn in the ear.
Later in the evening, when the moon shone brightly,
and the sinking embers threw up a crimson glow which
illuminated the recesses of the loft above, a howling in the
woods attracted notice.
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“What is that?” asked Julia.
“That,” said John Ringo, “is either a wolf or an Indian.”
“Murther! Did you say Indian, Mr. Rango?” exclaimed
Paddy, rising from the table, and, unbidden, occupying a
stool near the corner of the capacious fireplace.
“Or a wolf, Paddy,” replied Mr. Ringo. “But take a
dram, and I will tell you what took place here one night
when I was a boy.”
“John,” said Mr. Schooley, “thee must not tempt Patrick
to drink. We still have a long road before us. But
thou mayest tell him some of the anecdotes of early times.
And I see Julia is impatient to hear thee. But thy listeners
must not forget that thy adventures happened many
years ago.”
“But, father,” said Richard, “thee heard William
Franklin say—”
“Richard! thee forgets that thou art not permitted to
repeat what the governor said.”
Richard was dumb.
“I believe the governor* intends to take sides against
his father,” said Ringo, between the puffs of his replenished
pipe, the smoke from which, although it seemed to ascend
the chimney, nevertheless perfumed the apartment.
“Pray go on now, Mr. Ringo,” said Julia, in an attitude
of attention.
“It was about this time o' night,” said Ringo, “and at
this season of the year, the moon shining brightly, as it is
now,—when I was a boy, Paddy,”—he added, seeing Paddy
stretching his neck, and with open mouth looking toward
the window,—“that we heard an uncommon howling. The
wolves seemed to be all around the house, and a great deal
nearer than the one we now hear.”
“John, dost thee hear it now?” asked Mrs. Schooley,
who was likewise an attentive listener; for she had never
before accompanied her husband to his western estates.
“No; he is silent, now,” said John, between two prolonged
puffs; “and it's likely he's eating one of my pigs.
On the night I am speaking of, there was an old man by
the name of Jobes with us. He came down from Sussex
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county, where he had lived several years, and had often
been chased by the Indians; and once, while he was absent,
two of his sons were killed. He and my father were
making a bargain for the piece of land you saw on the left,
with the girdled trees on it, when the old man stopped
talking, and said they were not wolves, but Indians, howling
around the house. And soon they stopped howling,
and began to hoot like owls.”
“Dost thee not hear an owl now, John?” asked Mrs.
Schooley.
“I do,” replied Ringo, after expelling a long whiff of
smoke.
“Murther!” cried Paddy, starting up.
“Who's killing you, Paddy?” asked Ringo.
“Thee must not forget it was twenty or thirty years
ago, Patrick,” said Mr. Schooley.
“I will try not, yer honour,” replied Paddy.
“We looked into the yard,” continued Mr. Ringo, “and
saw a large party of Indians aiming their French muskets
at us. We dodged down. You can see the bullet-marks
on that side now.”
“Murther!” said Paddy, drawing closer to the corner.
“Recollect it was before you were born,” said Julia,
amused at Paddy's evidences of affright.
“Then,” resumed Mr. Ringo, “we rose and fired, and
when the smoke cleared away there was not an Indian to
be seen.”
“They were handsomely defated,” said Paddy.
“They were not gone far,” said Ringo. “For, when
Jobes peeped out, a bullet came in and cut off his ear.”
“The blackguard savage!” said Paddy.
“From that time both parties were more cautious. But
we were besieged till morning, when we heard the joyful
sound of fire-arms a short distance from the house, which
we knew to be the signal of relief, and the Indians instantly
disappeared. Our deliverers were from the block-house
on the river, and had been following the trail of the enemy.
Since that night we have never been molested.
“Wilt thou not be made fearful, Patrick,” asked Mr.
Schooley, “listening to such stories?”
“Niver a bit, yer honour, if the young mistress won't
be frightened. Bless yer life, sir, all these botherations
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happened before I was born, and surely before the young
lady iver dramed of such a thing. Yer honour, I'll show
you I'm not afraid! I'll go to the stable be meself, and see
if the horses are comfortable; and airly in the morning
I'll have the shoe faxed at the shop down at the mill.”
Paddy walked bravely out into the yard, and on to the
gate, upon which his hand was resting, when he espied a
solitary horseman coming slowly down the road. He stood
undecided whether to advance or retire, until the stranger
was sufficiently near for him to perceive that he wore a
blanket thrown gracefully over his shoulders, that his head
was surmounted with a crest of feathers, and that he held
a gun in his hand. Then Paddy was undecided no longer.
Starting back, he ran into the house, his face as pale as
death and his limbs trembling at every joint.
“Why, what hast thou seen?” demanded Mrs. Schooley.
“Tell me, Paddy, what it is!” cried Julia, with a smile.
But Paddy was almost speechless, and could barely
articulate the word “Indian!”
Ringo went out immediately, followed by Mr. Schooley
and Julia. The stranger had dismounted, tied his horse to a
tree, and was standing near the front entrance of the house.
“Who are you?” demanded Ringo.
“Thayendanegea,” replied the Indian, with a lofty brow
and erect stature.
“That means Brandt, in English,” said Ringo, advancing.
“How do you do, Brandt? I'm glad to see you.
How you have grown since I saw you last! Why, you are
a large man, now!”
“Ay, and a sachem,” said the young chief, smiling, (for
he could speak our language very well.) “But, tell me, how
high was the moon when the White Eagle departed toward
the Kittaning?”
“White Eagle?”
“Ay:—my white brother.”
“You mean the young Cameron?”
“Ay.”
“It was before the middle of the afternoon.”
“And who was with him? By the trail I see there were
two, and one was of the Lenni Lenappé family, of which
I too am descended. His totem is on the tree at the
crossing, a tortoise, like mine. His name?”
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“We call him Bart Calvin,” said Ringo.
“His name is Shawuskukhkung,” said Brandt, without
other emotion than a slight sneer of contempt.” It is the
right name,” he continued, “meaning, in your language,
Wilted Grass. The wild-flower perishes in the hothouses
of the pale-face, and, when cooped, the eagle becomes a
dunghill-fowl. The once mighty Algonquin droops like
wilted grass! Its shrivelled branches should be bathed in
blood.”
“Blood!” said Julia, who could not avoid admiring the
form and poetry of the speaker, but was startled at the
mention of the sanguinary remedy for the resuscitation of
a decaying race.
“And thou art the fair Antelope which charmed the eye
of the young eagle? Thayendanegea, too, can write with
the quill, as well as his brother, and we have corresponded.”
“I have often heard him speak of thee,” said Julia,
from habit using the terms employed in the family of her
guardian; “and he loves thee as a brother.”
“I hope so,” was Brandt's laconic reply.
“Come in,” said Ringo. “Forgive me, Brandt, for my
forgetfulness.”
“John,” said Mr. Schooley, as the party entered the
house, “thee ought never to forget that hospitality is one
of the chief virtues in the estimation of the Indian.”
Mrs. Ringo did not forget it; and the table was soon
spread, and honey and other luxuries, which had been
hitherto withheld, were placed before the young chief, who
partook of them without hesitation.
“And would not your horse like to have a bite?” asked
Ringo.
“A little,” said Brandt. “Not much, like the horses
of the pale-faces.”
“Paddy,” continued Ringo, “you know my hostler has
the ager, and I can't leave my guest. Won't you bait*
the gentleman's horse for me? You needn't be afraid of
his taking your scalp.”
“Is it a bating you would have me give him?”
“Yes, Paddy,” said Ringo.
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“I'll do it!” said Paddy, quite reassured upon seeing
the Indian eating like other people, and somewhat enraged
at the twinkle of Brandt's eye when he recognised him as
the one who fled from the gate.
“Thee did expect to meet the White Eagle and Wilted
Grass at this place?” interrogated Mr. Schooley.
“White Eagle—not Wilted Grass. His speech, left at
the crossing, says the Antelope and her pale friends must
fill the wigwam here, and he will light a camp-fire some
miles distant on the path, which will guide me to his
couch.”
“And thou didst call him brother?”
“I did. He was a pappoose when brought to our wigwam,
and lived with us until he began to pluck hairs from
his chin. We swam, and fished, and hunted together
among the cool lakes. I had lost my brother, and he supplied
his place. But the White Head came and removed
him to the college of the pale-faces. I will see him once
more. If he loves the pale-faces better than his brother,
he will desert the paths of the forest. Ha!” he exclaimed,
rising, his eyes glowing with a sudden fierceness
as he heard the peculiar snort of his horse. He strode to
the window, and in amazement beheld Paddy belabouring
his steed with a stout branch of an apple-tree, which he
had wrested off at the corner of the orchard. Every time
the bough descended the heels of the animal flew up, and
Paddy had to exercise some skill in dodging.
Brandt rushed forth into the road, and, seizing the halter
and the bough at the same time, after bestowing the latter
upon the shoulders of the astonished Paddy, mounted his
steed and galloped away.
“Murther!” cried Paddy, running into the house; “he's
been bating me—the wild savage blackguard! If I had
thought of my shelalah, I'd 'ave broken his punkin-head
for him!”
“Patrick,” said Mr. Schooley,—while Julia was irresistibly
diverted,—“why didst thou beat his horse?”
“Bate his horse? And sure Misther Rango tould me to
bate him.”
“I meant a snack—a lunch—a bite of corn; but a stupid
Irishman never knows any thing in this country,” said
Ringo. “And the Indian,” he continued, evincing much
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vexation, “dashed off without getting an explanation, and
it may cost some of us our scalps if we have war with
them again.”
“And it's a stupid Irishman, is it, Mr. Rango?” cried
Paddy, who had been touched in a tender place. “Be the
powers, if you'll walk out on the grane wid me, we'll see
whose head is the softest!”
“Patrick,” said Mr. Schooley, “be silent! Thee must
never have any strife in my service.”
“I ax yer honour's pardon,” responded Paddy, who
could not abide the idea of being discharged in such a
country as that.
“Heigho!” sighed Mrs. Schooley, and then, rising in all
her native stateliness, suggested that it was time to be reposing
after the fatigues of the journey.
“And Richard must have thought so a long time ago,”
added Julia, who perceived that her ungallant beau had
succumbed to slumber in his chair.
After a somewhat lengthy prayer from Mr. Ringo, who
was a Presbyterian,—the stoical Quakers remaining steadfastly
in their chairs,—the ladies were conducted into an
opposite room, while the male portion of the company remained.
It was thus they lodged in early times. Two
rooms, twenty feet square, sufficed for twenty lodgers.
The authentic traditions, which we follow without material
deviation, do not dwell upon the mere dreams of Julia
Lane, as she reposed upon her couch that night, with the
stars blinking upon her through the uncurtained window.
But doubtless the flowers she had found, and the interpretation
of the hieroglyphics she had seen, and which she
had been taught by Charles to render into good English,
were reproduced in her slumbers.
eaf622n1* This occurrence has been recently going the rounds in the papers,
an editorial friend of the author being permitted to transcribe it.
eaf622n2* He was a natural son of Benjamin Franklin.
eaf622n3* This, too, was inserted in the journal of the author's friend.
-- 024 --
CHAPTER III.
THE MIDNIGHT CAMP-FIRE — MEETING OF THE FOREST
CHIEFS.
[figure description] Page 024.[end figure description]
While our travellers are slumbering at “The Old Ringo
Tavern,” we will accompany Thayendanegea to the camp
of the White Eagle and Wilted Grass.
Having had many interviews with General Gage and
Sir William Johnston, Brandt had already resolved upon
the course he would pursue in the impending conflict.
And, whatever else may be said of the renowned chief by
poets and historians, it can never be truthfully alleged that
he was prompted in his action by either a mercenary motive
or a cruel disposition.
A frown contracted the young chieftain's brow as he
swept past the cultivated fields, and ever and anon the new
foundations laid for the future residences of the encroaching
white man. The hills and valleys, where his fathers
had chased the deer from remotest ages, were to be torn
asunder by the ploughshare; the gurgling streams, which
had furnished them the delicious trout, were to be dammed
by the millwright; and the majestic trees, which had sheltered
them in the solitudes of the forest, were to be laid
low, and the familiar haunts of the spirits of the great
departed were to be desecrated by the active cupidity of
European mercenaries. Such were the thoughts which
animated the young chief, as he pursued his solitary way,
and stimulated the resolve to be amply revenged.
It was near the hour of midnight when Brandt perceived
the glimmer of a light on an eminence to his left.
It was upon a knoll surrounded by ancient oaks, through
the interstices of which the sinking embers could be seen
at intervals. It had been one of the favourite camping-grounds
from time immemorial. Brandt had not revisited
it since the days of his early youth, and then Charles was
with him.
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The young chief dismounted and drew near the sinking
fire. In peace or war, the Indians do not generally have
sentinels at night. Brandt found the two young men
steeped in slumber; but the light was not sufficient to distinguish
their faces. Their forms merely were discernible
as they lay together wrapped in their blankets. They had
made use of the decayed forks of the old camp, by placing
poles across and forming a shelter of bark. The rear of
the camp was protected by the fallen trunk of a gigantic
tree, and next to this were their heads, while their feet
reached nearly to the fire.
Brandt stood with folded arms, gazing intently. Had
he been an enemy, how easily he might have dispatched
them both! But such was not his mission. He was in
quest of friends and coadjutors. He made a single step
forward, as if to rouse them, but paused abruptly. In
the dusky gloom their features might not be distinctly recognised.
He turned away and noiselessly replenished
the fire. He then approached the open end of the camp,
and stood again with folded arms and a thoughtful brow.
Charles turned uneasily on his couch, and muttered in
his dream the following words:—“I am no Indian; I have
no savage blood in my veins.”
Brandt started forward with a horrible scowl, snatched
the tomahawk from his belt, and flourished it menacingly
over Charles's head. But the next moment the shining
weapon was replaced, and the young Mohawk resumed his
meditative attitude.
The dry wood was now crackling and blazing brightly,
and the whole scene became distinctly apparent. At
length a smile illuminated the handsome features of
Brandt, and, taking a reed from his bosom, played one
of the tunes familiar to the ears of Charles when gliding
over the smooth surface of the Ontario or floating in the
canoe on the waters of the gentle Wyalusing. At the
conclusion of the strain Charles rushed forth, and, with
the words, “Brother!” “My brother!” the young men
were locked in each other's arms. It had been five years
since they parted. Before that event, and for many years
previously, they had been inseparable. Charles had been
loved and treated quite as well as the lost son and brother
whose place he had been chosen to fill. No word of
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[figure description] Page 026.[end figure description]
lamentation for the dead had been uttered in the family
after the first month of his adoption.
After a prolonged silence, they sat down and smoked
the pipe which Brandt had filled, gazing with delight and
affection at each other.
Wilted Grass came forth and sat down beside them.
“Shawuskukhkung,” said Brandt, extending his hand,
“we, too, are brothers. We flow from the same parent
stream,—the Algonquin,—and come from the same Lenni
Lenappé family. Why should we widen the tract which
separates us?”
“Thayendanegea speaks the truth,” replied the Delaware
chief. “But streams never more run together when
parted by mountains. I will die where my fathers died.”
“But not live as they did. Your hunting-grounds are
turned into pig-pens.”
“There is a land beyond the grave—forests where the
axe never sounds. Such are the peaceful hunting-grounds
of my fathers, and thither I will join them.”
“True. But the same Great Spirit bestowed upon us
this beautiful land. Will it please him if we meanly surrender
it to the trafficking stranger, from whom the game
flies in horror and disgust? Can a coward enter the hunting-grounds
of the spirit-land?”
“Thayendanegea, I am no coward,” said the Delaware.
“Tschichohocki (Burlington) was once the village of a
thousand braves. But the Mantas came from the slimy
creeks, and licked them into another shape, and blew
their own breath down their throats, and swam away with
their squaws to Matinicunk, where their children became
frogs.”
“Frogs!”
“They still croak upon the banks of the Delaware
River; but when danger approaches they close their eyes
and dive down to the bottom.”
“And do you mean to call me a frog and a coward?”
demanded the young Delaware, rising indignantly, with his
hand on his tomahawk.
“I do not raise my hand against the Wilted Grass,”
said Brandt, with imperturbable composure. “When the
Great Council was held at the Forks of the Delaware,
your people were all women. Teedyuscung, your head
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chief, spake without rising, like a squaw, until Tagashata
removed the petticoat which had once been worn at a treaty.
Then he was a great chief again.”
“He was always a great chief,” said the Delaware, resuming
his seat with a sigh. “At that council he removed
the French hatchets from the heads of the English. You
and I and White Eagle were present. We were too young
to listen; but we were told afterward by our fathers what
had been done. The nations listened to Teedyuscung, and
made solemn pledges of peace. The Delawares forget not
their pledges.”
“The Mohawks do not violate their treaties,” said
Brandt. “The Five Nations then signed a treaty of
friendship with their Great Father over the broad water.
They will keep their promise.”
“You forget what the Senecas have since done, instigated
by their chief Tagashata. Five years after the
meeting of the Great Council they murdered Teedyuscung,
and falsely said the English had perpetrated the foul
deed.”
“Not the English, but the Yankees, who were seizing
the Susquehanna valleys. And they say so still.”
“But they say falsely. The Minisinks loved Teedyuscung,
and it was known they would be revenged.”
“Let us not discuss those things, my brother,” said
Charles.
“No!” cried Brandt, springing to his feet. “The past
is gone forever. We who were boys are men, and our
fathers have gone to the hunting-grounds of the spirit-land
unarmed and in fetters. Let us follow them with our rifles,
that they may eat. It was you, my brother, I wished to
go with us. The Wilted Grass will bend over the graves
of his kindred. But the nations of the West will come in
multitudes, like the leaves and the stars. The blood of
our enemies will run into the sea, like the rushing streams
after a mighty storm. Let your face not be white.”
“The Great Spirit made it white,” said Charles.
“But that was when you dwelt beyond the broad water.
It was the Great Spirit also that made Thayendanegea call
the White Eagle his brother.”
“But who are the enemies you speak of?”
“They who brought the small-pox and the fire-water;
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who stop our running streams and hack down our trees.
The elk and deer have fled to the mountains, the buffalo to
the plains near the setting sun. Our homes are desolate.
The wolf and the owl and the rattlesnake only remain.
We, the lords of the wilderness, to whom the Great Spirit
gave the whole country, now flit like dusky bats in the
shadows of the evening. My brother, scalding tears roll
down my cheeks. It is the last time. The Great Spirit
calls upon us once more to hurl the invaders from our
shores. It is the last call. Look up through the weeping
leaves at the stars. During many thousands of moons
they smiled on our happy people. The song of joy echoed
through the valleys around. The merry dance was prolonged
till morning beneath the boughs of these spreading
oaks. All is silent and desolate now; and the last chief
of a mighty race stands by a solitary camp-fire and mourns
in tears. My brother, I dash these woman's tears into
the ashes at my feet. The spirits of my fathers shall not
grieve for the bondage of their son. I will break the
chains the white man has drawn around me. I will die
with the tomahawk in one hand and a scalping-knife in the
other. I hurl away the pipe of peace. War is declared!”
“War against whom, my brother?” asked Charles.
“Against whom? Alas! I fear, against my brother, if
he will not fight at my side. Against the white man!
First, against those who fell our trees and dig our grounds;
next against the army of King George. The royalists and
the rebels shall slaughter each other, and we will slay the
survivors.”
“Ha! ha! Brandt, you are mad!”
“I am. And there is no time for idle delay. Will the
White Eagle return with his brother to the lakes?”
“No; not if my brother intends to come back and
tomahawk my father. But I will go with him if he will
remain at peace.”
“Peace! My brother does not seem to know that the
Five—or rather the Six—Nations have already sounded the
warwhoop. Only a few trembling Cayugas and Oneidas
remain with their women. And the great tribes of the
West are echoing the scalp-halloo from the war-paths of the
mountains. The royal governors of Pennsylvania, New
Jersey, and New York, have sent us arms and money.”
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“I feared so,” said Charles, despondingly.
“Feared, brother?”
“Not for myself.”
“Who, then?”
“You, and thy devoted race. My brother, our Great
Father over the broad water is a bad man. His armies
will be beaten. The Americans will triumph, and the poor
Indian be the last victim.”
“Farewell, my brother. The day is dawning. I go alone,
unless Shawuskukhkung will accompany me.”
“I will die in peace by the graves of my fathers on the
sea-shore,” said Wilted Grass, his head drooping on his
breast.
Just then a hailing halloo was heard in the valley below,
where the path diverged from the main road, and the party
in the camp became singularly excited at so unexpected a
salutation. It proceeded evidently from a party of Indians
or from men familiarly conversant with their mode of shouting.
Brandt answered it; and a few minutes after three
men—two Indians and a tall white man—came trotting up to
the encampment. The white man was the famous Simon
Girty, who had been dwelling among the Western Indians
since the French war, and had been taken prisoner about
the time of Braddock's defeat. The others were the chiefs
of the Shawnees and the Ottoways,—Cornstalk and Pontiac.
“And you will join your brother, I suppose?” said Girty,
in the English language, to young Cameron.
“I shall remain at home in peace, if possible,” said
Charles.
“It will not be possible. You must be with us or
against us. And you will have to decide without delay.
Already preparations are being made in every direction.
I am now returning by night marches from a conference
with Lord Dunmore, the Governor of Virginia, and with
messages for the Western tribes. A secret treaty has been
concluded with the Ottoways and Shawnees, and we are
authorized to engage the Creeks, Cherokees, Potowottomies,
Wyandots, and all the other powerful tribes, to fall upon
the rebels. And the rebels are about to appoint George
Washington their general. There will be stirring times—”
“I will not stir, if I can help it. I will not take up
arms against the colonists, who have demanded nothing
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but justice from their oppressor. And, Girty,” he continued,
in a low tone, “beware what you do. You know,
I, too, was a prisoner, and have had an opportunity to
learn something of the intention of the Indians.”
“I know what you mean. They propose assisting the
British to destroy the Americans, and then exterminating
their ally. You and I are aware of the impossibility of
such a thing. But, if it were practicable, it would be our
best policy to become red men.”
“Once more, my brother,” said Brandt, approaching
Charles, “I ask you to go with us.”
“No!” said Charles.
“Then, farewell! But, if we should meet again in
bloody strife, still, let us remember we were brothers.”
“I would have it so, Thayendanegea. But I have no
desire to spill any man's blood, and I hope this war may
be smothered in its birth. I go to see my gray-haired
father; after that, I know not what I shall do. I did
hope to fish and hunt with my brother on the head-waters
of the Susquehanna. But such may not be if the scalp-halloo
reverberates through the valleys. Give this to the
Brown Thrush, my sister. Tell her the White Eagle will
dream of her, although he may not see her.”
Brandt opened the casket which had been placed in his
hand, and glanced at the jewels that were to adorn his
sister's brow and writs; and then, gazing silently and
long at his white brother, turned slowly away and joined
the departing guests, who had completed the scanty meal
which had been placed before them.
And Charles and his Delaware companion followed soon
after. They had not proceeded more than a mile, however,
when they beheld Brandt returning at a brisk pace.
“My brother,” said Brandt, “when the Brown Thrush
shall look upon these presents, she will wish to know how
long the White Eagle means to stay away. She will ask
me if thou art betrothed to the lovely Antelope of whom
thou hast written more than once. What shall Thayendanegea
say?”
“Say I am not betrothed to the fair maiden: only
that she was as kind to me as a sister, when I had no other
friend. I will see the Brown Thrush again; I know not
when. You can speak for me.'
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“The Antelope is very beautiful. I have seen her.”
“When?”
“Last night. And I saw thy tokens. But I will not
tell my sister. She would be broken-hearted, and sing no
more. Farewell—if thou wilt not go with me.”
“Farewell!” said Charles, and the chief rode furiously
away.
CHAPTER IV.
THE FOREST HOME—NIGHT SCENE.
The sun was descending in the azure west, when the
carriage suddenly paused. It had reached the summit of
the Jenny Jump Mountain, in the southern part of Sussex
county.
“Why hast thou stopped, Patrick?” asked Mr. Schooley,
as he thrust his head out of the window, and to do which
it was necessary for him to remove the broad-brimmed hat
from his head.
“Plase yer honour, the horses had a dazziness in their
heads, and I was afraid they'd fall off the mountain. It's
so high, yer honour, it almost takes my breath.”
Mr. Schooley descended to the ground, and stood for
several moments gazing at the scene. There were no precipices
near, and the surface was almost level on the eminence
where the horses stood. But the surrounding
scenery was sublime, gilded by the golden tints of the declining
sun. Behind was the Musconetcong Mountain,
which they had passed several hours previously, and before
them rose the Blue Mountain, enclosing the intermediate
space, like the walls of an impregnable fortress. Far to
the left, but distinctly perceptible, a depression in the range
indicated the locality of the Delaware Gap, and seemed to
be the only outlet from the vast enclosure—the stupendous
battlements on either hand being some two thousand feet
in height.
Not many settlements now met the view. Some five or
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six primitive farm-houses were all that could be discovered
in a diameter of several miles. But near the base of the
hill called the Jenny Jump Mountain, which attained an
elevation of some six or eight hundred feet, was a massive
stone structure, being the church edifice of a small colony
of Moravians, founded by the good Count Zinzendorf.
Even the stoicism of Thomas Schooley yielded for a
moment to the enthusiastic admiration inspired by the
landscape; and he turned to the carriage-door and beckoned
Julia, who had just awakened from a short slumber,
to join him. She did so with alacrity, and stood enraptured,
gazing at the spectacle. Then she uttered incessant
exclamations of delight, while the staid Mrs. Schooley and
the sober Richard listened with imperturbable gravity.
“Thee seems to be pleased with the features of the
country,” remarked Mr. Schooley, his rigid lips relaxing
almost into a smile.
“Oh, enchanted!”
“But if there were fewer hills and rocks, and more acres
of arable land, both thee and I would be the richer,” said
Mr. Schooley.
“And yet Mr. Green wrote us that there were many
arable slopes and valleys,” said Julia.
“True; Samuel did say so, and he is a good judge of
land. No doubt he made good selections for himself. That
is his house on the hill near the church.”
“Can we not see the house we are to occupy?”
“Thee can see it, but indistinctly, to the left of the village.”
“Where there is a forest of dead trees?”
“Yea; they stand in the largest field, and were girdled
by William Van Wiggens, our overseer.”
“Girdled? And did that kill the trees?”
“Thee must not think he belted them with gaudy ribbon,
as thee sometimes does thy frail waist. What is meant by
girdling is the cutting round the tree through the bark,
which prevents the sap from ascending, and the tree dieth,
just as the doctors say the habit of tightly belting the human
chest produces disease and death.”
“But, Thomas, why should William Van Wiggens kill
the poor trees?”
“He did it by my direction. In the autumn the storms
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and the axe will remove the trunks, and then we will have
fields which may be cultivated with profit. To the right of
the opening, if thee will look steadily, thee may see the
roof of the house we are to dwell in.”
“I see it! A long, double, two-story log-house! And I
see the barn, and the orchard beyond, and cows grazing
within it. Oh, I am so impatient to be there! I shall be
delighted, Thomas, with our forest home. And it has a
southern aspect, sloping gently down to the meandering
ravine. Flowers will flourish there. And is there not a
brook of crystal water flowing through the ravine?”
“Yea; a beautiful stream, that empties into the Paulinskill.
It has many trout in it; but I have never taken any
of them, and Richard has no taste for idle sports.”
“Oh, let us be going! I am impatient to be at home in
the wilderness, and to explore every grove and rock and
cave and streamlet!”
When they resumed their seats, Paddy found no difficulty
in proceeding, as the horses seemed to be recovered from
their dizziness. And, as they descended from the summit
of the Jenny Jump, Mr. Schooley endeavoured to describe
to his family the condition of things they must be prepared
to encounter at their new home. Nor had the far-seeing
Quaker neglected to make the necessary preparations for
his removal to a place of supposed security. The preceding
year he had contracted with some of the numerous
family of Stouts, and Mr. Green, to have him a dwelling
and the usual out-houses completed by the ensuing spring;
and he had sent up Van Wiggens with several slaves (the
Quakers then were slaveholders) to girdle the trees for a
new field and to raise a crop of corn.
The site had once been the abode of a squatter, without
any title to the land, and the rude hut he had occupied was
now the hen-house. But there remained more than a hundred
noble fruit-trees of his planting, now in perfect maturity;
and there were several acres of well-cleared land
in the immediate vicinity, a portion of which had been enclosed
for a garden, and was to be under the special superintendence
of Paddy Pence, directed by the fair Julia.
Farming implements, articles of furniture, and other indispensable
household goods, had been sent up from time to
time in barges Van Wiggens had superintended every
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thing. In his eyes the house was a palace and the lands
a princely estate; for he was descended from one of the
original Dutch families that lived and died on the broken
hills of the highlands on the Hudson. And now he was to
receive his reward. Fifty acres of good land at the foot
of a hill in the vicinity were to be his own, to be conveyed
to him and his heirs forever. Nor was this all. Thomas
Schooley was to furnish him with the implements of a
blacksmith-shop, William having learned the trade in a
Dutch smithy. The anvil, the bellows, &c. were already
on the way, and Van Wiggens ought to have been a happy
man and his wife a happy woman, for they had been recently
married.
At length the travellers were at the end of their journey,
and William Van Wiggens and his wife Joan stood at the
door to receive them. Julia bounded from the carriage,
and was the first to receive their greetings.
“Why, William,” said she, “you and Joan look as sedately
as an old married couple.” Joan was older than
her husband; but girls were not so abundant in those
days.
“Yes, miss, I'm dirty,” said Van Wiggens, who could
not easily pronounce the th, “and my vife is dirty-two.”
“He means thirty-two,” said Mrs. Van Wiggens.
Julia continued onward, laughing heartily, until she was
arrested by Rose,—a very black rose,—who had nursed her
when an infant, and who now attempted to lift her up in
her arms.
“My sweet mistress—my baby dear—come to lib wid
old Rose! I blesses de very arth you treads on! Why,
Julie, you are a woman now. Gor bless your happy little
heart!”
“I have a large heart, Rose, and it beats with true affection
for my kind, faithful nurse. Release me now. I must
see my room and gaze out of the window. There! That
is my sweet wood-robin in the pear-tree. Listen! It is a
song of welcome.”
“Oh, Miss Julie,” said Rose, following, “de trees are
full of 'em. Dey sing from morning to night. In de
night de owls come after 'em; but I knew you wouldn't
have 'em eaten up, and so I made Sambo shoot de bigheaded
varmints.”
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“Thank you, Rose,” said Julia, who had found her
chamber, and was now standing before a plain bureau,
upon which stood a small mirror, arranging her hair.
“Yes, Julie, and I made Sambo dig up all de pretty
flowers in de woods and plant 'em for you in de garden.”
“Thank you, thank you, Rose; but I hope he did not
dig quite all, as I am also fond of seeing them wild in the
forest.”
“Lor' bless your sweet life, I don't mean ebery one!
Goodness! dere's more flowers in de woods dan all de
niggers in Jarsey could dig up in a lifetime. But, Julie,
dere's some frightful-looking snakes in de woods, too.”
“No rose without its thorn, Rose.”
“Dat's edzactly what master used to say. But you can
tie some bark on your legs like de Deckers did, and den
dey can't hurt you.”
“I don't understand you, Rose.”
“Dey peel de bark off de young chestnut-trees and
wrap it round der legs, and de snakes can't bite through it.”
“Oh, I understand. But I will keep out of their reach.
Is there any one, Rose, in the neighbourhood, who can tell
long stories of winter evenings about the Indians and the
wild beasts?”
“Lor' bless you, Mr. Green will set in de chimley-corner
and talk all night if anybody'll listen. And he'll make
your blood run cold wid his frightful tales. And de Indians
does come sometimes; but dey're friendly. Den dere's
bears, and painters, and catamounds!—I'm afraid your little
heart'll be frightened out ob you.”
“Not it! You know, Rose, I was never a fearful girl.
I am sure I shall be charmed. I like the wild woods—
though I would have no objection to a few neighbours of the
right sort. I suppose there are some agreeable people
living near—I mean within three or four miles,—besides
the Stouts and Mr. Green?”
“Precious few, I tell you. Dere's one man living at
de Jenny Jump cliff, in a kind ob crow's-nest ob a house.
But I neber saw anybody who had been in it, 'cept Hugh
MacSwine, his agent, and he's as sour as a green persimmon,
and dey tink de master's as surly's de man.”
“What is his name, Rose?”
“Dey call him Cameron.”
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“That will do, Rose. You had better go to Mrs. Schooley
now. She may require your services, and I can take care
of myself.”
Left alone, Julia pondered in silence over the discovery
she had made. She was not really in love with Charles,
but she admired him, and she had reason to believe the
friendly feeling was reciprocal. She had heard much and
read much of the magic influence of love; but she could
not believe she was then in imminent danger of being
swayed by its mysterious fascinations. She felt not the
slightest alarm, and perhaps she could not have been made
sensible of her peril.
During the first day after their arrival, the Burlington
family were engaged in explorations within and without the
house. The dwelling was quite spacious in dimensions, and,
although neither plastered nor papered, the fireplaces
seemed sufficiently ample to heat the apartments in winter,
and there would certainly be no scarcity of fuel. And the
rooms seemed to be furnished with every thing needful for
the substantial comfort of the occupants. Indeed, but few
articles of fancy were to be found in the parlours of the
most wealthy city Quakers.
Mrs. Schooley was pleased—at least uncomplaining,—and
Julia seemed really delighted. The climbers—Cocculus
Carolinus and Vitus rotundifolia—which had been sent up
were living where they had been planted, on each side of
the main entrance. Then there was the garden,—an acre,
at least,—and it had been enclosed with rude palings. There
were rose-bushes (mainly the beautiful and fragrant damask)
and lilacs at the corners of the borders. The fruit-trees
were in blossom, and the birds in full song.
The lowing cows came up from the wild pasture to be
milked, the pigs squealed in the pen for their food, and the
fowls cackled in the barnyard. All was freshness and
novelty, and Julia ran from one object of admiration to
another like a gleesome school-girl. And Richard did his
utmost to please her. He worked all day in the field with
the slaves, and at eve brought in such blossoms as he could
find among the bushes in the woods, mostly white and
purple—the Cercis Canadensis and Cornus Florida.
Julia was thankful for every thing and to every one, and
always happy. A large black Newfoundland dog on the
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place became attached to her, and was her inseparable
companion whenever she emerged from the house. This
was a great satisfaction, as it would not have been prudent
for her to venture on the extensive rambles she meditated,
without some sort of a protector. Richard was too industrious
to lose any time in that way, and the corn was yet
unplanted. But Solo was a sufficient guard and companion.
During the first week of her sojourn at her forest-home,
Julia had been visited by Charles; and they laughed heartily
over the subject of his picture and flower-writing, which
had been so mysterious or unmeaning a thing to Richard
and his unsophisticated parents.
But, if there were mysteries hidden from the old folks,
they likewise possessed their secret, of which the young
people had never dreamed. Charles and Julia had been
aware of the frequent conferences held with Mr. Green, the
surveyor, but could never have supposed the discussion
referred to themselves or could in the slightest degree
affect their interests.
They were not, however, to remain long in ignorance.
The time appointed for the “shadows of coming events” to
cross their path was at hand. A few hours more, and new
subjects of meditation would be presented to them; but
the short interval before the announcement was passed in
almost perfect bliss, which is so often succeeded in this
world by unhappiness.
Tea was just over. Richard had departed to the field,
accompanied by the slaves, to labour for an hour in the
night, and Mr. Green, as usual, had come to talk away the
evening with the old people. Charles and Julia sallied
forth, accompanied by the faithful Solo, to witness a spectacle
which Richard had promised them,—an idea originated
by Richard himself, and inspired, as he said, by the desire
to exhibit something that would be magnificent in Julia's
eyes. But it would be impossible for him to attend her
during the evening. His time and labour would be required
in the field. Charles, no doubt, would be willing to accompany
her.
It was truly to be a spectacle of great grandeur and
sublimity. For days the fallen boughs of the dead trees
had been piled around the bases of the standing trunks;
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[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]
and now, as the darkest hues of night were descending on
the wild landscape, the heaps of dry wood were to be
simultaneously ignited by the torches flitting between
them.
Charles and Julia stood upon a knoll a few hundred
yards distant from the scene, and Solo lay at their feet.
During the hush that prevailed in the moment of expectation,
a whippoorwill, frightened from the field, perched upon
a rock in their immediate vicinity and uttered his monotonous
wail. Ever and anon a panic-stricken hare bounded
past, which Solo would pursue no farther than he could see
it by starlight.
Ere long a deep red glare appeared on the dense woods
which surrounded the field, and it was faintly visible on
the faces of the young couple, while Solo's eyes resembled
balls of fire. Some forty piles of dry boughs sent
up their startling flames, roaring like an approaching
hurricane.
“Beautiful! See the tall pines!” exclaimed Julia, releasing
Charles's arm, and clapping her hands together.
But, in the movement, the mantle which had enveloped her
fell to the ground. Charles lifted it up and replaced it,
gently encircling her form with his arm
The trunks of the gigantic trees, charged with inflammable
resin, soon presented great columns of fire, rising
high in the air. The illumination revealed the dusky
forms of distant mountains, appearing like huge monsters
reposing in the night; and, as the flames leaped upward,
the whirling sparks seemed to mingle with the stars. Solo
looked at the face of his mistress, and uttered a piteous
whine.
“Poor Solo!” said she; “he seems to think we are in
danger.”
“And really, Julia,” said Charles, gazing at her delicate
features, “you are very pale.”
“It is the contrast between the light and shade. The
reflection on one side of your face makes the other seem
like marble. I never felt less fear in my life. And, pray,
what is there to frighten me?”
“Nothing, that I am aware of; and I am sure no injury
can result from the magnificent conflagration before us.
And yet, I confess, there is a singular weight oppressing
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[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]
me,—a sort of indescribable pain which is sometimes the
premonition of a dreadful event.”
“Dreadful event? And what could that be?”
“I know not, Julia, unless it be a separation from thee,
and being forced into the scene of strife which may follow
the unhappy differences between the parent country and
the colonies.”
“And that would be a dreadful event?'
“Undoubtedly.”
“It would indeed be terrible to see the fires of civil
war, and of a war of invasion, lighting the hills and valleys
with the destruction of happy homes, while the red
glare of the conflagrations would rest upon the faces of
thousands of miserable outcasts, as the reflection of these
flames is resting upon ours. Perhaps your depression may
be the result of some such apprehension as that.”
“It may be—certainly must be—in part. But to think
of the blood that must be spilled, the great guns and
gleaming swords of the civilized nations, and the whoop
and scalping-knife of the impetuous savages!—Julia, what
would become of thee? In such a contest neither sex, age,
or condition, would be respected.”
“Me? Oh, I should not have a particle of fear. I do
not think any one could harbour a purpose of harming me.
I have never injured any one.”
“You know not what would happen.”
“No. Nor would I desire to know beforehand. But I
think I should meet my fate with a brave heart. Mercy
on us!” she exclaimed, starting back and clinging involuntarily
to Charles.
The largest tree in the field, which had been for some
time completely enveloped in curling flames, fell, with a
thundering sound, and with its top toward the young
couple.
“Ha! ha! Julia,” said Charles, “it is a full quarter of
a mile distant.”
“It seemed as if it would reach us. Let us return.
Why, Solo!” she continued, as her dog sprang up and
barked fiercely at some object, apparently but a short
distance from them, in the almost impenetrable thicket
behind.
“It is a fox, perhaps, or a cat. I could soon ascertain.
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Yet it is hardly necessary,” said Charles, yielding to Julia's
inclination to depart. “But,” he continued, somewhat
sadly, as they proceeded slowly toward the house, “the
horrors of both a civilized and a savage warfare may be in
fearful proximity, and we should be prepared for the worst.
You are the only friend I possess, Julia—I mean among
the white people,—and I shall be very unhappy if any evil
befalls you.”
“Do you really think there is danger here?” she asked,
quickly.
`Not more than there would be elsewhere. My father
says the battles will be fought between the cities of New
York and Philadelphia. The oldest settlements will be
the scenes of the greatest carnage. He deems the conflict
inevitable, and I believe in his prescience. No doubt
roving bands of Indians will descend from the lakes—”
“And will they join the British?”
“Yes, too many of them. But they have a superstitious
reverence for the Moravians, and for their founder,
Zinzendorf. With them, if danger assails thee, thou
mayest, perhaps, find safety.”
“I will remember. But thy father? Why has he not
been to see us?”
“He sees no one, for reasons he will not explain. Suffice
it that he is experienced in war, and has led thousands
to the conflict. His counsel is to be respected. But he
will never draw his own sword again. He desires to live
and die in the solitude of his chosen seclusion. You will
see him some day, I trust; and he will please you and
be pleased, I am sure. You will find he has been accustomed
to associate with princes; but do not mention this,
Julia.”
“I will not; but why not?”
“No matter, now. Here is your guardian and Mr.
Green coming to meet us. Mr. Schooley beckons me
away. Mr. Green will conduct you in. Adieu—if we
should not meet again to-night.”
They were approaching the huge stile in front of the
house, when Mr. Schooley called the young man aside.
“Thou hast been witnessing a grand scene, Charles. The
ashes will be good manure, and there will be a larger space
for the plough. But it seemed like a pity to destroy so
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much wood, which would have been very valuable in some
places.”
“It was a fine sight for Julia,” said Charles; “but I
have witnessed larger conflagrations.”
“When thee dwelt among the Indians, thee, no doubt,
saw whole forests in flames.”
“Yes, and vast plains, one sheet of roaring fire.”
“What destruction of vegetation! and by those, too, incapable
of appreciating its uses and value! But I desired
to speak with thee, Charles, in relation to thy father.”
“My father, sir!”
“Thee need not be surprised. He is my neighbour;
and thee knows the Bible says, `Thou shalt love thy
neighbour as thyself.' And how may that be done where
neighbours never meet and do not see each other? According
to the custom of the country, thy father should
have paid me the first visit; but thee knows I am no
respecter of etiquette, and I am willing to make the first
visit to thy father.”
“I will signify your wish, sir,” said Charles, somewhat
gravely; “but you must be aware that my father never
goes into company, and, consequently, that he cannot be
desirous of receiving visitors.”
“Very true. But thee may say that I wish to see him
on business.”
“Business? Oh, I will say so, sir. The nature of the
business it will not be necessary for me to announce to
him.”
“Thee may do so. It is in regard to the lines of our
land,—a tract held jointly by thy acquaintance Julia and
myself, which runs in the immediate neighbourhood of thy
father's house. Mr. Green, the surveyor, is of opinion
that the house is on our land. And, if it be so, thee knows
thy father should be informed of it, as there might be a
gold-mine involved in it.”
“I will repeat your words, sir,” was the careless reply
of the young man, upon whom the Quaker had supposed
the announcement would produce a very different effect.
In short, the frequent conferences between Mr. Green
and Mr. Schooley had reference to the whispered rumour
that gold existed in vast quantities in the cliff, at the base
of which the hut of Mr. Cameron was situated; and it
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was believed that the white-haired Scotchman had found
access to it. Else why did he persist in maintaining so
strict a seclusion? And how else could he have obtained
the means of bestowing a collegiate education on his son?
His man, McSwine, had been sent twice a year to New
York, from whom, of course, nothing could be learned;
but it was inferred that he carried the precious metal with
him to exchange for coin, with which the expenses of
Charles, at Princeton, were defrayed.
After a rather embarrassing pause, caused by the surprise
of Mr. Schooley, Charles departed for the humble
residence of his father.
And in the mean time Mr. Green had improved the opportunity
to impart to Julia the fact that a portion of the
land occupied by Mr. Cameron belonged, in all probability,
to herself; and, furthermore, that it might be the repository
of the precious metal so long believed to be hidden in
the vicinity.
“If this be so,” said Julia, with seriousness, “it would
be a pity to deprive him of it.”
“Thee must be very generous,” said Mrs. Schooley,
“not to take what is thine own, for fear of depriving a
stranger of it, and one who has no title to it.”
“Oh, madam,” said Julia, “thou knowest I leave the
management of all business matters to Thomas. But, still,
I cannot help thinking how great a disappointment it
would be for another to relinquish an estate after long
supposing it to be fairly his own.'
“But paid for it with thy gold, perhaps: thee must not
forget that,” said Mary, rising, and going out in obedience
to a signal from Thomas, who appeared at the door.
Mr. Green, being left alone with Julia, did not hesitate
to touch upon another matter, which he was well assured
would not be displeasing to Mr. and Mrs. Schooley, or their
thirfty and industrious son.
“In all such matters, Miss Lane,” resumed Mr. Green,
who really spoke without disingenuousness, “I can have
no other object than to promote the interest of my friends.
Whatever may be the result of the discovery which we
think has been made, I can neither sustain any injury or
derive any benefit.”
“Of course not, Mr. Green,” said Julia; “and you must
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not suppose me capable of being offended at any part you
may take in the proceeding.”
“Oh, I am under obligations to your late respected
father and to Mr. Schooley. And, if I might be so bold
as to utter a particular wish I have long indulged, regarding
the crowning of your happiness—of the happiness of
both families—”
“Pray, speak on, Mr. Green,” said Julia, smiling.
“You have permission to speak plainly.”
“Then it is this: that all the lands may descend to the
heirs without division. I mean, as the lands are undivided,
that the heirs may be united.”
“Oh, in marriage!”
“That is it! And Master Richard, I believe, sighs for
such a union.”
“Mr. Green, I am sure you must be mistaken. He has
never said so himself.”
“He is diffident. But you may rely upon it.”
“But then it would be impracticable, because we belong
to different churches.”
“You can thee and thou as well as the rest of them;
and I supposed you attended their meetings.”
“I have gone to them, but came away no wiser than
before, because the Spirit did not move them to speak.
No, indeed; I am an Episcopalian.”
“I am a Baptist, and would be the last person to advise
any one to give up the church of his choice. Still, I think
the obstacle could be removed. But pardon me—I will
not pursue the subject. Where there is a will there is a
way.”
Mr. and Mrs. Schooley then entered, and the subject of
the impending war became the topic of conversation.
Julia repeated the opinion of the elder Cameron as it
had been expressed by Charles.
“Then he seems to take some interest in the world
beyond the cliff,” said Mr. Schooley.
“Oh, yes,” continued Julia, “and he has much experience,
no doubt, in wars—and—or—I mean—from his great
age I should think so,” she added, checking herself.
“Did Charles tell thee so?” asked Mr. Schooley.
“He said he had faith in his father's judgment,” replied
the startled girl. “And Charles is decidedly of the
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opinion that the Indians will generally espouse the royal
side.”
“And Charles's opinion is correct,” said Mr. Green.
“Although they do not know which side I will take, I
have already had a message from King Shingas, of the
Northern Delawares, and Brandt, of the Mohawks, to be
prepared for flight. I have rendered some services to
several of the great chiefs, and therefore am I warned
by them. Yet I do not think there is any immediate
danger.”
“But I shall take neither side,” said Thomas. “That
is, I will commit no violence on either side, although I shall
be rejoiced when the rebellion is put down, as I have no
doubt it will be. And if the Indians fight for the king,
they will hardly molest me—a loyal subject.”
After relating to Julia the manner in which he had obtained
the friendship of the Indians, Mr. Green withdrew,
promising to attend Mr. Schooley during his interview
with the elder Cameron.
CHAPTER V.
THE HERMIT—HIS SECRET—SCENE AT THE TREE—SOLEMN
VOWS—MOODY'S APPEARANCE.
Charles determined to seize the first opportunity, both
to propose to his father the reception of friendly visitors
and to expostulate upon the impolicy of occupying so mean
a house.
It was with this bold resolution that he arose the second
morning after his interview with Mr. Schooley, and occupied
the rude seat opposite his father at the morning repast.
Mr. Cameron was not exceeding sixty years of age,
although his bleached locks and profuse grizzly beard
had created the impression that he was much older. His
form was tall and erect, and his frame, though not robust,
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was not fragile. His face was very pale, and his eyes
dark, clear, and piercing.
Hugh McSwine moved backward and forward between
the table and the broad fireplace, serving his patron and
his son.
After partaking of the viands in silence, Charles broached
the subject of erecting a better habitation. His motive,
he delicately hinted, was the comfort of his parent, and
not a matter of convenience to himself, for he had been
accustomed to the rude wigwam of the children of the
forest. And he regretted that his indulgent parent had
not used a portion, if not the whole, of the money expended
on him at college, in the erection of a better tenement.
“Do you suppose, my son,” said Mr. Cameron, “that
this is to be your permanent abiding-place?”
“No, father. Yet the woods, the rocks, the streams,
and the skies, here, are no doubt quite as pleasant as elsewhere,
and I could soon become attached to them and feel
that this was my home. But it has ever seemed to me that
I was destined to mingle in more stirring scenes than those
likely to occur in this quiet valley. I have dreamed of
going forth to battle—”
“Nature—NATURE, sir!” said McSwine.
“Peace, Hugh!” said Mr. Cameron.
“But when I returned, it was to some such place as this,
surrounded by crags and deep impenetrable forests.”
“And such may be thy destiny. But, until you shall
have returned in safety, where is the necessity of a better
house? If you did not return to inhabit it, it would be
tenanted by strangers.”
“It would be occupied by you, sir. Oh, I assure you, I
feel many a bitter pang after lying long on my sleepless
couch, imagining I have achieved honours in battles or
science, to revert in thought to the mean hut which shelters
the head of my parent. If we are poor in purse, still
McSwine and myself have strong arms, and there is abundance
of material, both wood and stone.”
“I might have a better house, Charles. There is gold
sufficient in my chest to build one. But wherefore? I am
comfortable, and have my health. I could convince you
that my abode would be less agreeable in a better house,
and will do so very soon.”
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“But, sir, this hut is made the subject of contemptuous
remark by the people.”
“I know it. I desired it.”
“Will you not tell me why such was your desire?”
“Not now; but soon.”
Charles then delivered the message from Mr. Schooley,
and repeated the request that a meeting might be had at
an early day.
A startling frown darkened the pale brow of his father;
but it vanished when he learned the object of the Quaker's
pursuit was merely gold, and a smile of derision parted his
lips.
“Ah!” said he, “the Quakers retain but a limited portion
of the Old Testament. The command that `thou shalt
have none other Gods but me' is received with certain
reservations, according to the monitions of the spirit. But,
less wise than the Indians, it may be doubted sometimes
whether they know the difference between the promptings
of the Kacha and the Malcha Manito.”
“Ha! ha! ha!” was heard in guttural sounds.
“Peace, Hugh!” said Mr. Cameron. “It is the same
thing throughout the earth. Many men make choice of a
religion for their worldly convenience rather than their
eternal welfare. But this prying Quaker, and the cupidity
of the idle gossips of the country, would fill my poor house
and overrun the premises. I will see him, however, under
the elm at the margin of the brook, and treat with him as
the savages did with Penn; only, he must offer me no gaudy
presents.”
“I will inform him, sir. But, father, may I ask why it
was, when I mentioned the request of Mr. Schooley, your
brow contracted and your frame seemed agitated?”
“You may,” said his father, after a long pause. “There
could be no better time than the present, perhaps, to make
known to you—”
“Right!” exclaimed McSwine, clapping his hands.
“Peace, Hugh! Close the door and barricade it,” said
the old man; and then, turning to his son, while Hugh
lighted a torch, (for no particle of the glittering sunlight
now penetrated the hut,) he proceeded:—“Charles, you
have no doubt met with many of your name and country.
There are hundreds of them driven forth by tyranny from
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their native soil and dispersed over the world. Did you
not learn from the books in the college library, or from
Dr. Witherspoon, that there was once a race of lords of
this clan, each of whom led to battle a thousand followers?”
“I did, sir. And the doctor referred to them in the
last conversation I had with him. He told me to be worthy
of my name.”
“A noble, a glorious name and lineage!” exclaimed
McSwine.
“Be silent, faithful Hugh!” said his master. “He advised
thee well, my son.”
“But, father, can it be possible that I am a lineal descendant
of the lords of the clan Cameron?”
“It is. You are the last of the line in more respects
than one.”
“How, sir?” cried Charles. “Was not the `Gentle
Lochiel,' as his prince called him, stricken down on the
fatal field of Culloden, as had been predicted by the Highland
seer?”
“He was stricken down, but rose again; and the seer
spoke falsely.”
“The seer said he would die at the stake,” said McSwine,
despondingly; “and it may yet come to pass.”
“Peace, Hugh!” said his master.
“Then he must be living still,” said Charles.
“He does,” said his father. “After the escape from that
fatal field, he entered the service of the King of France.
He fought against the armies of the British tyrant both in
Europe and America.”
“America!” said Charles. “Am I—can I—”
“Thou art his son. I am Lochiel!”
Charles threw his arms round his father's neck, and long
remained silent.
“Yes,” continued his father, gently disengaging himself,
“I am the Gentle Lochiel, and thou art my son. But know
you not there is a price upon my head? A reward of a
thousand guineas was offered for my arrest, and it has not
been revoked.”
“But, father, George II. has descended to the tomb, and
surely the decree would not now be enforced if you were
apprehended.”
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“You know not that. My brother returned to Scotland,
many years after the battle of Culloden, for the treasure
of the family he had secreted. He obtained it, and it was
transmitted to me in Paris. But he lingered in Scotland,
supposing the enmity of the usurpers might be extinguished.
He was arrested — executed! He and I were
among the proscribed, and were already condemned to
death. No trial was accorded him. The king had only to
sign the death-warrant, which was done, while he uttered
hollow regrets—merely enticements, hoping I, too, would
return to the land of my fathers. His crown sat uneasily
on his head while an honest chieftain asserted that he had
no title to it! But enough of that. When peace was
made, I did not return with my regiment to Europe, because
the Indians had stolen my son. I sought you and
found you. But then the last of the royal Stuarts had
been arrested and conveyed from Paris by the orders of
Louis, and I resigned my commission, (which was not accepted,)
resolved to bestow an education on my son and die
in some peaceful seclusion. Now you know the reason of
my standing aloof from society. The thousand guineas
would induce many a wretch to cut short my existence.
You need not frown. You could not prevent it, but you
might avenge me.”
“I will be avenged upon King George!” said Charles.
“I know thou wouldst, my son,” said the old man. “I
know you would contribute to sever this vast country from
his empire. It will be lost to him and his line forever without
our instrumentality. Such is the decree of Providence,
who rewards or punishes every good or evil action. But
more of that hereafter. Let it suffice that I have ample
intelligence of the great political events, and can, from my
obscure hut, notwithstanding the umbrage I conceived,
wield no mean influence at the court of Versailles. As for
thee, thou art already, I fear, entangled in the silken fetters
of love—”
“I, father?”
“I think so. What think you, Hugh?”
“Gone! noosed!” said McSwine, grimly smiling.
“And, pray, how was such information obtained?” demanded
Charles, with a burning blush suffusing his face.
“Ha! ha! Ask Solo!” said McSwine.
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“Solo? Ha! were you in the thicket that night?”
“I was,” replied the shaggy, broad-shouldered Scot.
“Beware how you dog my trail, McSwine!” said the
indignant youth. “If my tomahawk had been in my
belt, your brains might have manured the roots of the
brambles!”
“It was not without my permission, Charles. But the
lady, as I have learned—”
“As you have learned, father?”
“Oh, yes. The mode of obtaining my intelligence is no
doubt sufficiently mysterious; but it is ample and reliable.
I say I am gratified to learn the lady is altogether worthy
of the son of Lochiel. I shall not oppose the union, when
the time arrives for its consummation, should I survive to
see it,—for the event cannot transpire immediately. It will
be obstructed by others, and in the mean time I may be
seized and led to the block.”
“Never!” said Charles. McSwine pointed significantly
toward the dying embers on the hearth.
“I understand you, Hugh,” said the old man, smiling.
“Charles shall know all. Follow me, my son,” he continued,
lifting the torch, and striding toward the broad
fireplace, that had been apparently cut from the solid rock,
being a portion of the perpendicular cliff against which the
hut was constructed. After removing the soot on one side
of the rock, and introducing a strong iron bar into an orifice
hitherto concealed, the entire rear wall, in one piece,
began to swing forward on hidden hinges, like the ponderous
door of a vault. The torch was then extinguished, and
Charles was amazed to behold the subdued rays of the sun
falling across the passage revealed within.
In silence he followed his father, and the next moment
was standing in an elegant room, with an arched ceiling,
through which the rays of the sun were streaming in a
hundred places. The floor was strewn with rushes, and
in the corners were several couches covered with velvet.
The walls were hung with Gobelin tapestry, commemorating
events in the history of Scotland and France. A small
ebony table on one side was covered with books richly
bound; and on the other, supported by a small stand, was
an open Bible and an Episcopal prayer-book. In the
centre of the room gurgled a stream of transparent water,
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which filled a pool hollowed in the rock, and then flowed
out at the side by a channel cut in the floor. In the pool
disported a number of speckled trout, seemingly familiar
with the presence of man.
“This is not the work of enchantment,” said the exiled
chief, gazing at the surprised countenance of his son, “but
partly of these hands. It is never good to be idle. While
Hugh tilled the soil and you were at college, it was my
daily task to excavate the rock and provide a refuge. You
may learn from this the magnitude of results obtained by
incessant application, however slow the progress. If the
idea be conceived, unceasing application will sooner or later
accomplish the end. But you have not seen all.” He
then led the way into two smaller rooms, some ten feet
square, and both likewise illuminated by rays of the sun
struggling through small fissures. In one of these rooms—
the centre one, for they were in a suite, after the plan of the
palaces in France—were arranged a great number of warlike
implements. In the farthest was the wardrobe and
the treasure, the latter secured in a strong iron-bound
oaken chest. The lid was lifted, and Charles beheld
several bags of coin. There were also costly jewels, and
pieces of massy plate, the presents of princes and the heirlooms
of the family.
“This is thy heritage,” said the exile. “If it please
thee to build a finer house, have thy will; but thy father
will still abide in his stronghold.”
“No, sir!” said Charles, with firmness. “Every thing
shall be subject to thy will—not mine. Thou wert right in
constructing such an abode. And, if I were thee, I would
not see Mr. Schooley, nor satisfy the curiosity of prying
neighbours. Permit me, sir, to turn back all intruders.
Against me no accusation can be brought; but some one
whom thou hast met in foreign lands might recognise thy
features.”
“No, no. Hugh will watch and guard the premises.
He is faithful. And they may not know me. I had no
exuberance of beard, and my hair was dark, until thou wast
stolen. No, no! there is no danger now; and I will see
this Quaker under the elm. No doubt they believe I find
gold in the cliff, since they must have observed the dust
from my excavations swept away by the freshets. Let us
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return to the humble hut. Hasten to thy friend, and say
I will see him.”
Charles was impatient to deliver the answer of his father,
but paused near the door of the hut, and carefully surveyed
the premises. The hut, as we have said, was built against
a perpendicular portion of the cliff. It was where the
range had been divided at right angles by one of the narrow
ravines that opened into the larger valley, which ran parallel
with the principal ridge. Thus the tenement was above
the reach of high-water, and the rooms excavated in the
rock received their light from the many perforations in the
cliff fronting on the largest stream, and were quite inaccessible
to any one without. There were a few well-cultivated
acres on one side of the small brook, on which were
a rude stable and cow-house. And in this manner the
recluse lived in security and independence.
Charles directed his steps toward the abode of Julia
with feelings very different from any he had hitherto experienced.
His hatred of the king became inextinguishably
violent, and he was glad he had resisted the artful
suggestions of Governor Franklin.
When he drew near the house, Paddy addressed him.
“What is it, Paddy?” he asked, pausing near the garden.
“Nothing matarial, Misther Charles, only we've no
wathermelons in Ireland, and, as I niver seed 'em grow, I
can't ricognise thim whin I mate them face to face. They
tould me they growed among the savages, and I thought
you might be famaliar with 'em, and would be oblaging
enough to say which is which.”
“That is a watermelon-vine at your elbow, Paddy,” said
Charles, laughing very heartily.
“Be my life, I thought so, though I niver saw one before.”
“But you are cultivating it in a most singular way,”
continued Charles, much diverted on finding the imported
gardener had driven a long stake in the ground and
wrapped the vine around it.
“I shouldn't wonder, Mr. Charles; for what is right
in a savilized country is wrong in sich a wild place as this.
And it reminds me of the corn Lord Bute, whose gardener
my father was, tried to raise in Scotland. His lordship
tasted the laves of the bush, and they cut his tongue. He
had thim biled, like granes, and tasted thim sasoned, but
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threw thim to the pigs. Well, Mr. Charles, the great philosopher,
Franklin, the nathural father of the prisent
governor of this colony, was there, looking on, laughing
and whaspering something to her ledyship. At last he
hinted that the ear ought to be biled and aten, as it was
done in America. `Och,' said his lordship, `is that the
way? I thought the grane was the sade, and not to be aten,
but planted.”'
“Paddy,” said Charles, “when the Indians get you, if
you tell them that tale it may save your scalp.”
“I wouldn't spind my breath on such blackguards,” was
Paddy's reply, as he proceeded to detach the vines from
the poles, and muttering something about the “falthiness”
of permitting fruit to grow on the ground.
Mr. Schooley and Mr. Green did not delay when informed
that Mr. Cameron would receive them. They mounted
their horses and trotted briskly away. And, while Mrs.
Schooley's foot was in rapid motion at the little wheel,
furnishing the threads for the loom, Julia and Charles
wandered away toward the grove near the end of the lane.
On one side of the lane, Richard and the negroes were
at work planting the late corn.
“I suppose, Julia,” said Richard, his hoe suspended in
the air, as the couple passed slowly along, “thou hast
been telling thy friend about our claim to the land. Thou
mayest promise, if there be much gold in the cliff, that a
share of it shall remain for his father.”
“Oh, pray don't be too liberal, friend Richard,” said
Charles. “My father don't value gold as much as you do
the common dust; and as for me, no doubt Julia will speak
kindly in my behalf.”
“Do so, Julia,” said Richard; “and whatever thou dost
promise will be approved by me.”
The amused couple pursued their way, and never paused
until they reached the great sycamore on the margin of a
trout-brook at the eastern extremity of the farm. Here
they sat upon a moss-covered stone partly buried in the
soil, placed there, perhaps, by human hands, to mark the
spot of a battle between hostile tribes of the forest.
Animals, arrows, and birds, were cut on one side of its
surface. On the other, and almost illegible, were rude
figures of men wielding the tomahawk and scalping-knife,
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[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]
besides many nondescript marks and characters. Charles
read the meaning, and not only understood the number of
warriors that had been engaged, but the name of the tribe
which had conquered. He could not tell when the conflict
had taken place, but it was evidently at a remote
period.
“Ha!” he exclaimed, upon lifting his eyes and beholding
recently-made figures on the smooth bark of the sycamore,
“a Seneca chief has been here within the last
twenty-four hours!”
“And with an evil intent, think you?” asked Julia,
with emotion, observing the excited gaze of the young
man.
“I fear so, Julia,” said he. “He threatens us. Do
you not see the serpent winding round the eagle, and the
arrow piercing the antelope?”
“And they call you the White Eagle and I the Antelope!
Why should they threaten us?”
“They would have me with them again. And they suppose
the Antelope withholds me from returning to the
Brown Thrush, the sister of Thayendanegea.'
“And perhaps she loves you!”
“She called me brother.”
“But I have learned that the white captives often marry
their brown sisters.”
“True. But I will never do so.”
“But does she not love thee?”
“She does. But what then?”
“Fly to her!”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because, Julia, I love only thee, and will remain.”
“You never said so before,” replied the girl, after a long
pause.
“But I have long felt it, and you could not have been
wholly ignorant of it. Even Shawuskukhkung, who came
hither with me, and is now on the lakes, pleading with his
kindred to remain at peace, observed it. Mr. Livingston
suspected it; and now I avow it. Oh, do not drive me
back to the wild forest! I never regarded the Brown
Thrush otherwise than as a dear sister. Do not drive me
away. I am not the outcast they suppose. My father is
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[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]
of gentle blood. Only permit me to love thee, and let thy
friendship continue, and that is all I will require, until a
proper time arrives for me to claim your hand in the face
of the world.”
“Charles, you know I have ever esteemed you; but I
cannot promise.”
“Not promise to continue your friendship? to ramble
with me as usual over the hills and through the valleys?—
to—”
“Oh, I think I may promise that—but—”
“That is all I ask at this time. I know that, until you
arrive at a certain age, your guardian has power over you.
This both himself and Mrs. Schooley have repeatedly assured
me.”
“He possesses the power of withholding my fortune until
I arrive at a certain age, if I marry without his consent.
That is all. But I promised my father to be guided by
his advice until I had attained my majority, and, you
know, long years must elapse before the fulfilment of that
period.”
“True. But the time will come. I asked nothing but
a continuance of your friendly regard until a proper moment
arrived for me to apply to your guardian. There was one
other thing, however:—that you would make no pledge,
under any circumstances, to Richard.”
“To Richard! Do you know the Quakers must marry
within the society?”
“I know it; and I know also there are many ways of
whipping the devil round the stump.”
“They would not attempt to whip me; but surely you
could not mean such a thing.”
“No, certainly not; the allusion was to the Malcha
Manito, which may sometimes be mistaken for the Good
Spirit in one's breast; and, according to the Quaker doctrine,
its monitions might be the highest decrees—higher
than any human laws. But you do not promise!”
“I do, Charles! And let it be a solemn compact!”
“Solemnly between us!” said Charles, pressing her
hand against his heart. “For, Julia, the time may come
when we must be separated,—when I may be a captive, or
an outlaw with a price upon my head; for I will never
draw sword or wield tomahawk in behalf of King George.
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[figure description] Illustration page.[end figure description]
-- 055 --
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Mr. Livingston, Mr. Stockton, Doctor Witherspoon, and
most of the leading characters, will resist the tyranny of
the king. And my father says that when a rebellion is
headed by the great personages of a country, after due
deliberation and formal confederation, the people must
win their freedom.”
“The devil he does!” said a broad-chested, red-haired
man, of vigorous step and scowling features, who came
from the opposite side of the huge sycamore and confronted
the unsuspecting pair.
“Who are you?” demanded Charles, leaping up and
grasping his tomahawk, which he had carried in his belt
after hearing the history of his father.
“I am a loyal subject of King George III., and you are
a rebel!”
“And you have been eavesdropping? But you shall
not repeat what you have heard!” And the youth hurled
his tomahawk at the head of the intruder. Julia uttered
a scream at the moment, and strove to defeat his aim.
She was successful. The instrument penetrated the tree
several inches above the mark, and remained firmly fixed
in the wood.
“Now is my time!” said the stranger, pale and quivering;
for the assault had evidently not been anticipated, and
he had made but a hairbreadth escape.”
“Nay! do not fire!” exclaimed Julia, throwing her
slight form between his rifle and her lover. “I saved thy
life,” she continued, “and you shall not take his without
first killing me!”
“I believe you would die to save him,” said the stranger,
lowering his gun. “But you must teach him better manners
than to throw his tomahawk at every one he meets,
and before he learns whether they are his friends or his
foes.”
“Sir, you could not be the first,” said Charles; “and I
defy thee still, although unarmed.”
“Merely because I happened to hear the words you
were speaking to this maiden? Know, sir, that the tree is
hollow, the entrance being on the opposite side. I was in
it before you came hither.”
“And what were you doing there?”
“I will tell you, seeing you have no secrets from me.
-- 056 --
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Know, then, that I, too, can read the picture-writing as
well as yourself — nay, better, for I understood by the
figures that the Seneca chief would return in a few hours.
I fell asleep awaiting him, and was awakened by you. I
know you both, and will not retain the advantage. I am
Bonnel Moody, at your service, and bear a commission in
the service of the king. And I am now on duty, being
sent hither by one of the royal governors to ascertain the
sentiments of the people.”
“And you have learned the sentiments of one of them,”
said Charles, smiling.
“But sentiments change, like the seasons; and, when
you hear what I have been charged to speak to Mr.
Schooley, perhaps your opinions may be modified. My
mission is to spread information as well as to obtain it; to
conciliate, rather than to incense. Hence, I trust there
will be no further strife between us.”
“I thank you for those words, Mr. Moody,” said
Julia.
“And fear not that I will repeat the speeches I have
heard, unless forced to do so in the discharge of my duty,”
continued the intruder, with a slight smile.
“I warn you, sir!” said Charles. “Utter but one word
you have heard, and we are deadly enemies forever. Let
us return, Julia. You still tremble.”
Charles had not gone many paces before he was overtaken
by Moody.
“Take your tomahawk, sir,” said Moody, placing the
glittering hatchet in the hand of the youth. “You have
a strong arm, sir. I could hardly loosen it. And, as the
maiden may not always be present when we meet, I hope
it will never be aimed at the same target again. Let us
be friends.”
“It cannot be. Avoid my path, and I will not seek
yours.”
“It must be as you decide,” said Moody, gravely. “But
I may keep your company until we arrive at the house,
since I have important messages for Mr. Schooley.”
“He is not at home, sir,” said Julia. “He and Mr.
Green have visited Mr. Cameron, Charles's father.”
“The old man of the gold-mine? Then I will join
them there; and I know a nearer way than through the
-- 057 --
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lane. A fair morning to you both,” he continued, bowing
very low, and striding through the wood in a divergent
direction.
“And be careful that you do not again play the eavesdropper,”
said Charles; “for Hugh McSwine has a sharp
tusk.”
“Do not irritate him, Charles!” said Julia, clinging
with increased tenacity to his arm.
“Julia,” said Charles, in a sad tone, “that man is the
only witness to our vows.”
“No, Charles. One in heaven heard them! They say
such vows are registered in heaven, and there is no reason
to doubt it. And if it be so, it must be a grievous thing to
break them! I hope you made no similar pledges to the
sister of the Mohawk chief.”
“Indeed, no, Julia. And she will acquit me of it; but
she knows not of my regard for you. She is meek and
forgiving, and seldom swayed by passion; but her brother
is sometimes fierce and furious. He loves me, but
would kill me rather than lose me; but we must be
separated.”
“And will he not kill you?”
“Not if I can help it. But he is patient, too, at times,
and prudent and wise, as well as affectionate. He is only
terrible when in one of his ungovernable spasms. He still
hopes I will return and marry his sister; and I do not
think he would listen to the words of this Moody, if he
were to repeat what he heard at the sycamore.” In this
manner they conversed until they were joined by Richard,
who, having faithfully done a half-day's work, was repairing
to the house for his dinner.
-- 058 --
CHAPTER VI.
THE SENECA INDIAN—ATTEMPT TO ARREST THE REFUGEE—
RIVAL LOVERS—BLUE PIGEON'S MESSAGE.
[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]
Charles accepted Richard's invitation to dine with him.
Rose brought in the smoking fowls and other viands, and
they fared sumptuously.
Before the dinner was over, and when even Mrs. Schooley
herself was smiling at the idea of the Irish gardener planting
poles for the watermelon-vines to run on, (an account
of which Charles was entertaining the family with,) Paddy
himself made his appearance in a most unlooked-for manner.
He sprang into the room and overturned the table,
over which he fell, sprawling to the floor. Before any one
had time to demand an explanation, he bawled out, “Indians!
the savage Indians!”
`Where?” asked Richard, jumping up, and manifesting
some alarm.
“Be calm, Richard. Thee need not fear,” said Mrs.
Schooley. “Thou knowest the chiefs have often been the
guests of thy father in Burlington, and thee need not fear
them here.”
“How many did you see?” asked Charles.
“I don't know how many, Misther Charles,” said Paddy.
“But one of the blackguards was laning over the palings
close be my head when I was sticking the marrow-fat pays.
He was as close to me as I am to you at this moment.”
“Then it could not have been his purpose to kill you,”
said Julia, “or he might have done it easily.”
“Och, and I should niver have been the wiser! What
a country to live in! Nothing but rattlesnakes and blackguard
Indians!”
“Thee must not term them so, Patrick,” said Mrs.
Schooley; “for, if they should hear thee, they might do
thee some mischief.”
“I will call them gintlemen if they'll only let me sculp
-- 059 --
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alone. I hope they did not hear me. I'm sure I beg
their pardon if they did.”
Charles stepped to the door and uttered a friendly call
in the Seneca language; and the solitary Indian, who had
so much alarmed the gardener, approached from the position
he had occupied when Paddy beheld him, and from which
he had not moved. He entered the house, shaking hands
with all the inmates, and uttering the usual “How do?”
Paddy hesitated and squirmed a great deal, but yielded
when told by Charles that if he refused to extend his hand
it might be considered as a token of hostility.
The Indian wore upon his garments a great many bears'-claws
and porcupine-quills; and behind, hanging from his
feathered head-dress, was the skin of a large rattlesnake,
reaching nearly to his heels. The rattles were still on
the lower end of it, and at every motion of his body
they gave forth the startling sound so terrifically familiar
to the ears of the first settlers of every portion of our
country.
The Indian was invited to eat as soon as Rose could readjust
the table. When he had finished eating, Mrs.
Schooley lighted his pipe, and Charles smoked with him.
“My Seneca brother,” said Charles, in the Indian language,
“has threatened the White Eagle. It was done in
sport, was it not?”
“The Rattlesnake listened to the voice of the great chief,
Captain Pipe, and did his bidding. The Rattlesnake does
not aim his fangs at the White Eagle.”
“The White Eagle is glad to hear it, and he smokes the
pipe of peace with his brother. But he would have the
Seneca chief listen to his voice also. He would have him
say to the great Captain Pipe that he fears him not, nor
any other captain who threatens at a distance; but, that
if the Antelope should be molested, the White Eagle would
soar to the top of the highest mountain, whence he could
see his farthest enemy; and the bird of the fleetest wing
would soon alight upon him.”
The Seneca promised to deliver the message, and at the
same time declared that Thayendanegea was entirely ignorant
of what had been done to offend his brother.
Charles learned from this Indian, who was but a minor
chief, that the colonists had taken the fort at Ticonderoga,
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and that preparations for war were being made everywhere
in the North.
The Seneca soon after set out in quest of Moody, for
whom he had certain messages.
Meantime the interview with the mysterious occupant of
the humble hut took place under the elm on the margin of
the stream that swept along the base of the cliff. Mr.
Cameron did not apologize for not offering to entertain his
visitors within the house, but proceeded to business without
delay. And when he exhibited his title, (it was for five
thousand acres, to the utter astonishment of Mr. Schooley,)
derived from the heirs of Edward Byllinge, one of the original
purchasers from Lord Berkeley, who had his title from
the Duke of York, and produced a plot made by John Rockhill,
a noted surveyor still living, neither Mr. Green nor
the Quaker had a word to say against the correctness of
his lines or the validity of his title.
“And now, gentlemen,” said the exile, “I believe our
business is at an end, and we must part as strangers. If
this examination into my title had not been made a pretext
for inspecting my premises, I might have desired a more
social intercourse with my neighbours. I know it is believed
that gold exists in these rocks; but such can only be the
supposition of the ignorant; for any one at all acquainted
with chemistry would know that the substances found in
this region resembling the precious metals can be nothing
more than worthless iron pyrites.”
When he ceased speaking, Moody, who, as usual, had
been a concealed auditor, came forward and placed sealed
packets in the hands of Mr. Schooley, whom he knew by
his Quaker hat and coat. He then wandered carelessly
aside, while Mr. Schooley broke open the seals. They
contained letters both from New York and Burlington.
Moody had just arrived from the former place, and the
Indian (who now made his appearance, “how-doing” and
shaking hands) from the latter. From Governor Franklin
he brought a commission, creating Thomas Schooley a justice
of the peace.
The Indian, true to his instinct, followed Moody's trail,
and entered the small ravine which opened into the valley
where the interview had been held.
“No, mon! I tell ye no! Gae bock, or I'll dirk you!”
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Such were the words spoken a moment after, in a loud
voice, by Hugh McSwine. And when all eyes were turned
in the direction of the hut, Moody and the Indian were
seen retreating, driven back by Hugh.
“If you scratch us with your Scotch dirk, I'll send a
ball through you!” said Moody, half presenting his rifle.
The Indian uttered one of his warwhoops and brandished
his tomahawk. Mr. Schooley and Mr. Green became much
excited. The first, by virtue of the commission he had received,
besought and even commanded the white man to
keep the peace; while the latter, who knew something of
the Seneca language, warned the Indian against shedding
blood. The white-haired exile lifted a small horn to his
lips and sounded a shrill blast, which was answered by another
from the hut of a Mr. McArthur, living near the summit
of the range of hills. The faint echoes of several
other blasts were then discernable in the distance, but did
not seem to be comprehended by Moody, who was still
intent upon the execution of his purpose.
“I call upon you, Mr. Schooley,” said he, “by virtue of
your commission, to arrest these men in the name of the
king. Here is a paper given me several months ago by Sir
John Johnson, in which is described a certain fugitive from
justice, and for whose arrest and delivery into the custody
of any of his Majesty's officers a reward of one thousand
guineas has been offered.”
“Dost thou suppose this Hugh the one?” asked Mr.
Schooley.
“No; but the pale Scotchman, if his hair were not so
white, would answer the description,” said Moody, lifting
the paper before Mr. S.'s face.
“Art thou the man?” asked Mr. Schooley, turning to
Mr. Cameron.
“What man?” was the reply.
“The Highland laird who fled with the Pretender,” said
Moody.
But the exile made no reply, while Hugh gazed steadily
up the ravine.
“I see,” continued Mr. Schooley, having adjusted his
spectacles, and holding the document before his eyes with
both hands, “I see that John Johnson, known as Sir John,
hath been charged by his Majesty's ministers to seek a
-- 062 --
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certain fugitive, supposed to have taken refuge in the hills
of New Jersey, whose description followeth, &c. Truly,
my friend,” he continued, turning to the exile, “thou dost
answer the description in every thing but the colour of thy
hair. The name, too, is the same; for every one knows
that the rebel Lochiel was the chieftain of the Camerons.
And this paper further sayeth that there is quite a number
of Scotchmen hidden in these parts, and they are supposed
to possess several very valuable jewels rightfully belonging
to the crown of Great Britain, but which were seized and
carried away by the second James Stuart in his flight from
the kingdom. One of said diamonds is valued at five thousand
pounds. Bless my life! What canst thou say to all
this?”
“Not one word will I say to you,” replied the chief.
“If it must be answered, let it be before a proper tribunal.”
“Proper tribunal! Thee forgets I am one of the king's
justices of the peace.”
“I do not recognise the king's authority. What say you,
my friends?”
“Down with the Usurper!” was the cry of some half-dozen
voices; and the next instant a number of the brawny
sons of Scotland, armed with dirks and rifles, emerged
from the bushes and stood in a line before the amazed
magistrate.
“What men are these?” demanded Thomas.
“They are the Scotchmen alluded to in this paper,”
said Moody; “and they are too strong for us,” he added,
in a whisper.
“They are the Sons of Liberty,” said Mr. Cameron.
“Sons of Liberty!” said Mr. Schooley, in astonishment.
“William Franklin urges me, as a loyal subject,
to prevent the organization of such a body in this section,
and says it is belived a secret association, calling themselves
by that name, are pushing their ramifications into
every township.”
“My friend,” said Cameron, with a smile, “your labour
will be fruitless if it is the design to suppress the Sons of
Liberty. As for you, sir,” he continued, addressing
Moody, “go back to the miserable cave which is the
repository of the plunder taken by thee in the name of the
-- 063 --
[figure description] Page 063.[end figure description]
usurper styled King. If thou wouldst lose thy life in his
service, die like a man in the heat of battle, or else bury
thyself in the murky shades of the swamp, so that thy
name may never more be mentioned. And thou, son of
the forest,” he continued, turning to the Indian, “fly far
beyond the trail of the white man. Hunt the deer, the
moose, and the buffalo, in the primeval forests, or on the
interminable plains, beyond the reach of civilization.
Avoid alike the faces of the English and the Americans.
No matter which side you may choose,—no matter which
party may be victorious,—a union with either will be thy
destruction. Render that into his own language,” added
he, speaking to his son Charles, who had silently joined
the party, and was now standing beside his father.
The chief listened attentively—as Indians ever do—to
the speech intended for the ears of his race. When it was
finished, he merely replied that all the lands and rivers had
been given to the red man by the Great Spirit, and he
would be unworthy the gift if he fled before the invaders
from beyond the broad water.
During this scene Mr. Green remained silent, but did
not seem surprised. He had much land, and was not disposed
to place it in jeopardy by hastily taking sides with
either party. Charles was indignant, and so greatly excited,
it was with difficulty his parent could restrain him
from making a desperate assault on Moody.
Of course the statue-like Sons of Liberty, who had
descended from the hills, and now stood in imperturbable
composure, each grasping his gun, put to flight for the
time the purpose of making the arrest in the king's name.
Moody slowly withdrew, in company with Mr. Schooley;
Mr. Green and the Indian followed, while the exiled chief
motioned his small band of Highlanders to return to their
homes. He then entered his hut, and laid before Charles
some papers he had just received from New Brunswick by
the hands of one of Hugh's runners,—a red-haired boy, of
an idiotic appearance, but of reliable shrewdness, called
Skippie.
By these documents Charles learned that he had been
appointed captain of a company of minute-men, to be
raised in his county. The Convention had likewise imposed
a tax of £10,000, to be paid to agents named by the
-- 064 --
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committees; and until such appointments were made the
captains were authorized to act, and were to correspond
with the standing committee of patriots:—James Kinsey,
John Wetherill, John Stevens, Richard Stockton, &c.
Governor Franklin was declared a public enemy by Congress,
and his seizure ordered—by the advice, it was said,
of his own father. And malignant persons asserted that
the wise philosopher and his son made a politic choice of
different sides, so that the one who chanced to be of the
victorious party might save the other.
The Continental Congress decreed that if the Quakers
could not conscientiously take the oath prescribed by
them, they might subscribe a declaration as follows:—“I
agree to the above association as far as the same is consistent
with my religious principles.” As many believed
it a Christian duty to be true to the king, they found no
difficulty in singing when hard pressed. Such was the
case in many localities where the whigs were the most
numerous. But those who refused were to be disarmed, to
give security for their peaceable conduct, and to “pay the
expenses attending thereon.” And the captains in the
township, or the county committees, were to attend to the
matter without delay, and were empowered to arrest and
imprison dangerous persons at discretion; and all who
would not muster when required, armed as the law directed,
were to pay ten shillings for each offence, recoverable by a
distress warrant.
“Now you are invested with quite as much authority,”
said the elder Cameron, smiling, “as the Quaker guardian
of Julia Lane.”
“It seems so, sir,” said Charles; “but I shall be embarrassed
in the exercise of it.”
“You will accept the appointment, then?”
“Certainly, if you advise it, since Mr. Livingston accepts
the appointment bestowed on him.”
“You have my permission. And I would advise you to
enroll your company with as little delay as possible, and
lodge this Moody in the new jail at Newton,—else he will
attempt to capture your father, not from motives of duty,
but for the sake of the reward.”
“True, sir!” cried Charles, starting up. “It must not
be delayed. As I came from Mr. Schooley's, I crossed a
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trail in the woods, which arrested my attention. A dozen
men had passed since morning, and they were evidently
seeking to conceal their presence. It was not a mile distant,
and they must be lurking in this vicinity.”
“Were they Indians?” asked his father, in some
concern.
“No, sir. I marked their footprints. They may have
been guided by one, however. It is the tory gang of this
Moody. I must be up and doing, sir, for we cannot tell
what moment they will fall upon us.”
“Stay,” said his father. “You must remain till morning.
It is now growing dark. You know we are impregnable
in our defences. To-morrow, when the sun again
illuminates the paths, you may seek these robbers. Hugh,
barricade the door; but first admit the bloodhound. He
seems to snuff the foe,” he continued, when the whining
animal was called in and the lighted torch revealed his
gleaming eyes as he crouched beside the door.
“They will attack us to-night!” said Charles.
“They would depart in peace, if I would only accompany
them,” said his father.
“Rather let every one of them perish! What say you,
Hugh?” exclaimed Charles.
“Kill!” was Hugh's reply.
Charles was permitted by his father to prize the ponderous
stone door slightly open, so that they might readily
escape in the event of a sudden emergency.
Hugh prepared the supper, which was heartily eaten, as
if the presence of danger could produce no diminution of
appetite.
Time wore on until the usual hour for rest, and still the
apprehended assault had not been made.
“They must have abandoned the project,” said Charles,
breaking the silence which had prevailed for some moments.
“Perhaps not,” said his father, rousing from one of the
prolonged reveries to which he was addicted, and taking
up one of the jewelled pistols that lay on the table, which
had been presented him by the unfortunate Charles Edward.
“But no matter,” he continued; “there will be strife sufficient
before this contest is ended. And the usurper will
lose. Unlike the civil wars suppressed by tyrants, we
here see the instigators of the revolution assuming the posts
-- 066 --
[figure description] Page 066.[end figure description]
of danger. When cowards urge their instruments to rise,
keeping themselves beyond the reach of injury, their enterprises
fail. It was thus with many of the Jacobites. They
not only kept aloof themselves, but would not consent for
the king to take the field in person. His son could not
sustain his standard. But it is different here. Every man
of note who sanctions the movement throws his head into
the scale. The usurper's empire will be ruptured. America
will be lost. And the last of the royal line of Stuarts,
degenerate as he is, will have the melancholy satisfaction
of witnessing it.”
The bloodhound bayed twice, and sprang against the
door, which he gnawed with his teeth.
“I thought so!” said the exile; “and it is quite likely
the leader of the party has been listening to my words.”
“It is certain!” said Moody, without. “We have heard
enough. I have with me some fourteen men, and resistance
will be in vain. In the king's name, I bid you open the door.”
“The devil's name would be quite as potential here as
the king's,” said Charles; “but neither will avail.”
“We will see,” replied Moody; and the next moment
a dull, heavy blow sounded on the door, and nearly prostrated
it. They had lifted up a heavy log and projected
it forward like a battering-ram.
“Awa' with you! awa' with you, mon!” said Hugh,
“or—”
“Or what?” demanded Moody. “We are armed, and
quite ready to meet you in that way. But we do not wish
to take the life of the prisoner, if we can avoid it.”
“No,” said the aged exile; “there might be some difficulty
in proving my identity and in obtaining the reward.”
“If you have money,” said Moody, restraining his men
during the parley, “we will listen to terms. Have you no
disposition to offer a ransom?”
“None whatever!” said Charles, and then fired his rifle
through the door. The log, held in readiness for the renewal
of the assault, was heard to fall, and doubtless one
of the assailants had been wounded.
A moment after, ten or twelve shots were fired by the
party without, and the door was riddled with their bullets;
but no injury was sustained by those within, who had anticipated
such an occurrence.
-- 067 --
[figure description] Page 067.[end figure description]
“Father,” said Charles, “as they have a great superiority
of numbers, would it not be well to summon our
friends from the hills?”
“It would be well, but it is not practicable. However,”
continued the old man, “these assailants will not be able
to injure us.”
“You are mistaken!” cried Moody, ever listening.
“Then do your worst! we defy you!” said the elder
Cameron.
“What will they do?” asked Charles, to whom it was
apparent they were not resorting again to the heavy timber
with which to force the door.
“They will try to burn us out,” said his father, in a
whisper.
“They may destroy the hut,” said Charles, “but not
injure us.”
“They can do no more than burn the outside shell,” said
his father, smiling. “Do you not observe how heavily and
completely the interior is plastered? The cement is thirteen
inches in thickness. The logs outside will burn and
fall to the ground; but the house itself will remain, to
astonish them, and to furnish stories for the superstitious.
Come; let us retreat into the rock. I hear the crackling
flames already, and the light will bring down my little
clan on their rear. Come, Hugh, unless you would be
roasted like a wild boar.”
“Let me stay, sir, until I feel too warm,” was McSwine's
reply; and the father and son retired into the excavated
rock.
Very soon the cliffs of the valley, the crests of the hills,
and the tops of the distant woods, were tinged with the
crimson glare of the burning house. The wolves ceased
their howling, and the owl, stricken blind, flapped down to
the earth in mid career.
“Open the door, before it's too late!” cried Moody.
“Hoot, mon, what're you impatient about?” was the
response of McSwine.
“Where are the others? Why don't they speak?”
“Gone, mon, where you canna' hear 'em.”
“Are they smothered? suffocated?”
“It's nane o' your business.”
“You seem to take it very coolly.”
-- 068 --
[figure description] Page 068.[end figure description]
“Yes, I am smoking in the chimney-corner.”
“Smoking, are you? I guess you'll soon be burning.”
“I'm smoking my pipe, mon, and you're ower impudent
to be disturbing ane.”
This was true. McSwine enjoyed his pipe when the roof
was in a blaze and the consuming logs were falling from
the sides of the hut. Yet it was rather warm within to be
comfortable; but the surly Scot determined to bear it.
He posted himself in the fireplace for the benefit of the
draught; but the current of heated air forced him at last to
step through the aperture and join his master. He did not
remain long, however, before the heat diminished in intensity
as the burning logs fell away, and he was able to
breathe again in the hut, which he re-entered, closing the
stone door behind him.
“The old boy must be roasted too, by this time,” said
Moody.
“The de'il you say!” responded McSwine.
“He is the devil, I believe!” cried one of the gang.
“Knock a hole through the infernal lime,” said Moody,
“and let us see him.”
This was not an easy matter. Failing to accomplish it,
they once more resolved to assail the door, which had escaped
the flames by being deeply sunk in the wall. But,
before the first blow was aimed, McSwine sent another bullet
through, and the timber was again heard to fall.
“He's broken my arm!” cried one of the men, “and
I'll have nothing more to do with 'em.”
Shortly after, several shots were fired on the right,
and then could be heard the tramp of running men.
Another minute, and all was quiet. The Highlanders,
aroused by the light, had come to the rescue of their loved
chieftain, and at the first discharge Moody and his robbers
made a precipitate retreat.
In the morning Charles was eager for an immediate
pursuit. But the aged chief forbade it. Before attempting
to punish Moody, it would be prudent first to ascertain
precisely the sentiments of the people:—whether, indeed,
the Federal Congress or King George on such a question
would have the greatest number of adherents.
Yielding to the counsels of his parent, Charles strove to
suppress the deadly rage he felt, but harboured a settled
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determination to punish the knavish miscreant on some
future occasion. He then aided in rebuilding the hut.
Like a block of granite, the lime and cement, though
blackened, and in many places cracked and scaled, still
remained standing, and the redoubtable Hugh said it would
bear another siege of fire. It was thoroughly repaired,
however, with all possible expedition.
During the day, and as the news of the assault spread
over the country, it was gratifying to Charles to receive
tenders of assistance from many persons hitherto total
strangers to him; and it soon became apparent that Moody
had but few sympathizers and abettors in the neighbourhood.
On the contrary, although Lochiel's identity was
no longer doubted or denied, no one stepped forward to
arrest him, tempted by the munificent reward. This was
a cheering sign, and Charles lost no time in communicating
to the people the substance of the documents he had received
from the Colonial Convention. Although at first
many remained unmoved, preferring not to commit themselves
at that early stage of the rupture, yet it was apparent
that in any test of authority between the king and
the Congress the latter would have the preponderance.
Emboldened by such indications, Charles commenced
canvassing for volunteers, and before the eve of the third
day he had the names of forty “minute-men” enrolled on
his list. His sergeant was a herculean Irishman, by the
name of Timothy Murphy,—a well-digger up the county,
whose life had been saved by Charles when in the hands
of the Indians.
One day, leaving Tim in charge of the recruiting service,
the head-quarters and rallying-point being in the vicinity
of his father's hut, where a temporary encampment had
been built both for the shelter of men and horses, Charles
set out in the direction of Mr. Schooley's plantation.
Charles was surprised, when approaching the smithy of
Van Wiggens, now in full blast, to find a sign hung out in
front of the dwelling with a huge bear roughly painted
on it.
“What does that mean, Will?” asked Charles.
“My Joan's doings,” said Van Wiggens, wiping the
perspiration from his fat cheeks with his leather apron,
blackened with the dust of the shop. “You see, dese
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crossroads are dravelled more and more, and te people keep
stopping at our house and living on us. So Joan has set
up a davern, and I painted te Black Bear sign.”
“I hope the entertainment won't be as rough as the
sign, Will.”
“Dat's uncertain, and tepends on te sort of guests dat
come. She's a fine laty, captain,” he continued, in a whisper,
“but she's a Tartar! As soon as she was mistress of
her own house, she began to scold me about every ding.
And ten she flung her shoe at me te oder day for telling
some dravellers our ages.”
“She did? That's strange. Your ages?'
“Yaw. I'm dirty, and she's dirty-two.”
“Women don't like to have their ages told, Will, if they
are older than their husbands. But thirty-two is nothing
to be frightened at. I suppose you gave her a taste of
your authority, as the Indians do their scolding squaws.”
“No, captain; dey always said Vill Wan Viggens and
his dog” (a small brown animal of mongrel breed, crossed
principally with the cur) “didn't fear man or teiffle—but
didn't say voman.”
“I understand. Well, Will, suppose you join my company?”
“Keep tark!” replied Will, in a very low whisper; “I
see Joan's cap bobbing up in te pea-patch. I can't stand
it much longer—tam if I do! She owns a pig nigger, you
know, who larnt his drade in Burlington, and she says he
can shoe a horse better as me. Tam if I don't go mit you!
Captain, when you're ready to go after te red-coats or te
savages, send a note here for Vill and his dog.”
Charles shook hands with the poor hen-pecked blacksmith,
and promised not to forget him and his dog.
He soon after fell in with Richard Schooley, resting on
his plough in a corner of the fence. Richard stared at
him in silence, and with something like an expression of
anger on his stoical brow.
“Richard,” said Charles, seeing his nod of salutation
had not been returned, “what makes thee so grum to-day?”
“Thee knows well enough,” said Richard, with a sigh.
“I do not, upon my word.”
“Thy word don't signify.”
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“What? Do you mean to doubt my veracity? Do
you give me the lie?”
“I did not give thee the lie.”
“But to doubt my word is pretty much the same thing.
Never do it again, unless you wish to quarrel with me.”
“Thee knows we never quarrel.”
“Then what the devil is the matter?”
“Don't use profane words, I beseech thee. But, to be
plain with thee, hast thou not striven to win Julia's heart
away from me?”
“I have sought to win her esteem, because I respected
her. Have you really loved her, Richard?”
“Oh, deeply! almost desperately! and if thee would not
see me miserable, thee will forsake her and seek some other
maiden.”
“I am sorry to hear you say so, Richard. But still, if
it should so happen that Julia be loved by me also, why
not seek some other maiden yourself?”
“Thee knows we were children together; and thee must
know that both my father and mother told me that Julia
was to be my wife.”
“Indeed! But then thee knows that Julia and I were
companions at Mr. Livingston's when she was a young
lady and I a young man.”
“I know it! And my mother always said that evil
might come from such indulgence.”
“Thy father, her guardian, had no right to restrict her
in the choice of a residence or in the selection of companions.
There is but one way, I fear, Richard, to settle
the difficulty.”
“If thee knows any way, so I can espouse the maiden, I
will be obliged to thee.”
“Would the maiden espouse thee, Richard, if I were removed
out of the way?”
“I think she would, in time, if father could persuade
her to attend our meetings.”
“Oh, is that all? Well, the way to adjust the difficulty
between us is, I suppose, to fight a duel. The survivor
will then have no rival.”
“Thee knows I durst do no such thing!” said Richard,
with an encrimsoned visage; “and thee does very ill in
naming it.”
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“I beg your pardon, Richard. But declare thy passion
to Julia, if thou wilt, and receive her answer. Know that I
love her as well as thyself. She must be the arbiter of her
own fate.”
“Stay!” said Richard, seeing Charles about to move on.
“If thee marries her, thee being a rebel as Mr. Moody
says, thou wilt bring her to beggary, for all her lands will
be confiscated.”
“Fool!” ejaculated Charles. “The Malcha Manito is
now moving thee. Gold is thy god, and the god of too
many of thy persuasion. I thought thee capable of worshipping
the lovely Julia—”
“Thee knows we never worship any mortal being,” said
Richard, interrupting him.
“Oh, yes, I know it. You merely sought her estates.
But learn, sir, that her union with me might be the only
means of saving them. Congress can confiscate as well as
the king. Follow me to the house; I have more to say on
this subject.”
Charles put spurs to his steed, and never paused until he
reached the stile in front of the dwelling.
He was met in the entry by Julia, who chanced to be
passing out, accompanied by her faithful dog. She wore a
troubled countenance, which soon vanished, however, in
the hearty greetings that followed.
“Meet me at the sycamore,” Charles whispered, as he
passed on to accost Mr. Schooley, whose approaching step
his keen ear had detected. Julia vanished in silence, which
was a sufficient response for the lover.
“Good-morning, Charles,” said Mr. Schooley; “I have
wished to see thee on serious matters,” he continued, as he
led the young man into the sitting-room, where Mrs.
Schooley's foot was propelling the incessant spinning-wheel.
She nodded her staid chin at him, and stared a
brief moment through her spectacles.
“I am sorry, Charles,” said Mr. Schooley, when they
were seated, “that thy father is truly the rebel laird who
waged war against the King of Great Britain.”
“And I am proud of it, sir!” said Charles.
“I hope thee will be calm. Thee knows it is a grievous
offence for one to take up arms against the sovereign.”
“King George was not the rightful king. Thou knowest,
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Thomas, it was the Stuarts who granted religious liberty to
the outcast members of thy society when they landed in
this country.'
“That is true; but we are bound to honour the rulers
set over us, without discussing their right to govern.”
“Very good, Thomas,” said Charles, quickly; “and if
you remain of that opinion long, you and I will concur in
honouring the Congress, which will soon be omnipotent.
King George III. has ceased to reign in America. I
renounce all allegiance to him!”
“What! what dost thou say?” exclaimed Mrs. Schooley,
the thread snapping asunder in her fingers and the wheel
abruptly pausing in its revolutions.
“I say,” continued Charles, “so surely as thy wheel
has ceased to revolve, Mary, a great revolution has begun
in this country.”
“Thee is mistaken! thee is mad!” said she, her foot
again violently in motion.
“Yes, thou art greatly in error, Charles,” said Mr.
Schooley; “and I desire thee to pay particular attention
to what I am going to say. Thou knowest I am a magistrate,
and it is my duty to arrest any offender that may be
pointed out within the limits of my jurisdiction. Thy father
confesses he is the individual described in the document
that Bonnel received from John Johnston, called Sir John.
Thy father hath resisted the king's authority—”
“Certainly,” said Charles; “he resisted the king's
claim to the throne.”
“Thee knows how deadly an offence that was. Well, it
is incumbent on me to discharge my duty, else my commission
becomes derelict. Thee knows, if thy father be
taken, he will not be entitled to a trial, as he hath been
condemned already. The king's signature will merely be
required to his death-warrant, and then he must be executed.
Such, thee must know, was the case with his brother,
Dr. Cameron. Now, inasmuch as I dislike being
made the instrument of the vengeance of the law, and as I
have still a regard for thee, notwithstanding thou hast
done very wrong in attempting to woo away my ward, I
confess to thee that I feel an inclination—which the monitor
within seems hourly to strengthen—to decline the commission
sent me, and remain an inoffensive spectator of
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the scenes of violence and bloodshed which I very much
fear will be the result of the rebellious conduct of the
politicians.”
“I think, Thomas,” said Charles, “that thou art moved
now by the right spirit, and that thou wilt do well in
yielding to its monitions.”
“But then, Charles, thee knows, if I would keep myself
entirely aloof from implication, there must be an utter
severance between every member of my family and those
who foolishly embark in the rebellion.”
“I understand thee, Thomas. Thou canst not see that
this outburst is a revolution, instead of a rebellion. And
thou wouldst stipulate that I should cease to visit Julia, the
only Christian friend I ever knew besides my father, so
that her fortune—which I do protest forms no portion of
my motive in seeking her hand—may remain with thine,
and become thy son's when thou art dead (and all must
die) and canst not even be a witness of the happiness his
wealth is to secure him? Oh, Thomas, Thomas, I very
much fear, after all, the invisible spirit within, which furnishes
thee the law for thy conduct, is sometimes a very
dangerous and irresponsible monitor—the devil himself!”
“Thou art uttering a vile profanation!” cried Mary,
dropping her thread and silencing the wheel.
“I am sorry for thee!” said Thomas.
“Be not uneasy on my account,” continued Charles;
“but tremble for thyself. Mammon and the true God
cannot be honestly worshipped at the same time or by the
same individual. In regard to Julia, in heaven's name, let
her be the arbitress of her own fate! Let her decide for
herself in matters pertaining to her affections. Her
father never supposed he was delegating to you the privilege
of choosing a husband for his daughter; and, if it had
been his purpose to bestow her lands upon your family, he
might have done it in a more direct manner. No, Thomas;
I will make no such compact with thee.”
“Then thee knows the consequence. I must not be implicated
with my ward if she casts her lot among the rebels.
I must convince John—called Sir John—that I am a loyal
subject. I must deliver thy father into the custody of his
Majesty's governor of this colony.”
“Very well. But, Thomas, thy messengers travel very
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slowly, else thou wouldst have known, as I do, that William
Franklin, late his Majesty's governor, is now a prisoner,
having been declared a public enemy by Congress;
and his successor will be my friend, and Julia's friend, and
my father's friend, William Livingston.”
“Thee seems to be in earnest,” said Thomas, in perplexity.
“Thou hast never attempted to misrepresent
any thing, and I must do thee the justice to say so.”
“What I say is the truth. And now I have a duty to
perform. By these orders it is my duty to require thy
signature to this,” continued Charles, placing a form of the
Declaration on the table; “and power is given me to arrest
those who decline it, if they do not give security for their
good conduct. Be not so pale, Mary, for thou art not in
danger. I will be his surety. I do not believe that
Thomas advised the attack on my father's house—
“Thee speaks truly, Charles,” said Mr. Schooley.
“No. I have never known one of thy society to counsel
violence.”
“That is just, Charles,” said Mary.
“But it cannot be denied that the measures they advise
are sometimes calculated to produce bloodshed.”
“What does thee mean, Charles?” asked Thomas.
“I mean, that although the slaves at Amboy were incited
to insurrection by the abolition declarations and teachings
of John Woolman, the pious tailor remained in his shop at
Mount Holly instead of heading the negroes. Several
were executed; and it strikes me that the blood which was
shed—both that of the negroes and their victims—flowed in
consequence of Woolman's intermeddling.”
“John was a conscientious man,” said Mary, who knew
him well; “but it was an unintended wrong to speak such
dangerous things to our slaves.”
“Whatever might have been the intention, the result
was most lamentable,” said Charles. “Yet, I repeat, I
have never known a Quaker to participate directly in acts
of violence. But they are not slow to grasp at the wealth
squandered by others; and, consequently, I think they
should not be exempted from contributing something to defray
the expenses of a just war, in which the government
that protects them may be involved, even if they are opposed
to the shedding of blood. Therefore, if thy son
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Richard will not join the ranks, armed as the law directs,
he must be prepared to bear the expenses of a substitute.”
Charles then mounted his horse and galloped to the
sycamore overshadowing the Council Rock; and when
Richard joined his parents a few minutes after, and learned
what had been said in relation to him, he could only stare
in blank amazement.
Julia had been some time awaiting Charles.
“Your guardian will be quiet now, Julia,” said Charles,
exhibiting his papers and assuming an air of authority.
“Instead of arresting my father, he is indebted to my forbearance
for escaping an arrest himself. I acquit him,
however, of any participation in the incendiary assault.
As much as I dislike the Quakers, I do not think any of
them would be capable of sanctioning such acts as that.”
“No, indeed,” said Julia; “at least, I am sure Mr.
Schooley would never participate in them. But what did
they say respecting me?”
“Oh, a great deal. They desired me never to see you
more.”
“Indeed, Mr. Basilisk! They fear you will fascinate
me, I suppose.”
“Or rather than I will envenom your heart against
Richard! But the fellow is large enough to muster; and,
since he will remain at home and fill a labourer's place in
the field, I intend to make him pay for a substitute in the
little army under my command. Yes! before they knew
their idol William had ceased to govern or to enjoy his
liberty, they proposed—I mean Mr. Schooley proposed—to
resign his commission, and thereby suffer my father to
escape arrest, and the executioner's block, as a sort of
equivalent for my relinquishment of your society.”
“Surely they put a very high estimate upon it! But
then they have almost intimated a purpose to relinquish it
themselves; for my good guardian has hinted at the necessity
of returning to Burlington, since we too may be
liable to such outrages as happened on your father's
premises.”
“And what could you say in reply to that?”
“I read to him Kate Livingston's letter brought by the
last express. She writes that her father thinks it will soon
be unsafe for her to remain in the old settlements, and she
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has a strong desire to be here with me. She is enchanted,
she says, with my descriptions of life and scenery in the
forest.”
“But did not Thomas say something in behalf of poor
Richard?”
“Not directly. But both he and Mary expatiated on
the beauties of Quakerism, and seemed anxious I should
join the meeting. That obstacle removed, Richard's superior
merits would doubtless secure the inestimable prize.
But why do you stare so? Oh, there are new pictures on
the tree! Read them for me,” she added, when they had
risen.
“Blue Pigeon has arrived with a message from my
mother!”
“From your mother? Oh, yes, I remember; you told
me she was ever indulgent and affectionate, and they called
her—”
“Gentle Moonlight. And she was truly gentle. And
Blue Pigeon was one of my most loved companions.”
“But here is the song-bird again—the same painted by
the other Indian. Its mouth is open, and it sings for thy
return.”
“My sister joins my mother in the message. I will
know more when I see Blue Pigeon.”
“Is it right to call the Thrush thy sister? Have you
not said the mother who adopted thee was only the aunt
of Brandt and his sister? How, then, can they be your
sister and brother?”
“Gentle Moonlight,” said Charles, with emotion, “lost
her husband in battle, and her only child, a little son,
sickened and died. This was before my capture. After
her bereavement, Brandt and his sister called her mother;
her affection was bestowed on them, and they seemed to
love their aunt almost as well as their true mother. Their
mother, seeing this, prevailed on Sir John Johnston to procure
a white captive for her sister, on whom her love might
be lavished. Sir John complied, and I was the captive.
Gentle Moonlight loved me as fondly as she had done her
own lost son, while I was taught to call Brandt my brother
and Brown Thrush my sister.”
“And they now wish you to return—to marry Brown
Thrush, and remain with them—to—”
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“Ah, Julia! how can you utter such bitter words? Am
I not free?—a man—and a white man? Have I not found
my father?”
“Oh, very true! But do not the rules among the Indians
require an unconditional compliance with the requests
of mothers? Do not all inheritances, titles, and wealth,
come from the mother? Do not the mothers contract the
marriages and the maidens sometimes make the proposals?”
“Very true; but Gentle Moonlight is not really my
mother, and I am no Indian.”
“And I have learned that the Brown Thrush and her
brother are the children of the British knight.”
“It is so said, but I doubt it. They have very fair
complexions, it is true; but I have seen hundreds of the
children of the forest as fair as themselves.”
“Then, as Moonlight is not thy mother, as thou hast
found thy father,” continued Julia, archly, “and as thou
hast no Indian blood in thy veins, thou wilt remain?”
“I do not know what may be required of me. I must
see this runner, this old playmate of mine, and hear what
he has to say. But, Julia, whatever I may do, whatever
may be my fate, you alone have my heart. It is thine.
But still I must feel a brother's affection for my forest
sister. A more gentle and loving creature does not exist.
She would have died for me, and—”
“She loves you! She loves you! But it is no fault
of thine. Poor, unhappy girl! I wish she were my
companion here, or I were with the Gentle Moonlight—”
“Nay, Julia, you know not what you say! You know
not how soon the Iroquois may be hurling the tomahawk
at the heads of our race and kindred. Then the brave and
terrible brother of the Thrush, and the nephew of the
Gentle Moonlight, will be upon the war-path. He will
descend the valleys with yells of vengeance for the ills the
Indians have suffered at the hands of the white man. And
the Gentle Moonlight and the singing Thrush must be
witnesses of the tortures inflicted upon prisoners. They
will be chilled by the howls of the Malcha Manito which
dwells in the shrivelled bosom of Queen Esther—the remorseless
Catharine Montour—”
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“Oh! name her not! I have heard of her cruelties—
and she not an Indian!”
“No, Julia. The whites are as capable of committing
monstrous cruelties as the poor Indians. But I know you
could never become a second Catharine Montour, or desire
to witness her savage fierceness. She is the daughter of the
French governor, Frontenac, it is believed, and was made
queen by the Senecas. She carries a war-club and scalping-knife,
and slays the miserable prisoners with her own hands!”
“Horrible! No; I would not behold her. Nor would
I have thee see her. But I fear this messenger will summon
thee away.”
“I would not obey any summons of hers. She is a Seneca.
Among the Indians I am of the bird tribe, having
taken the name of White Eagle, which was conferred by
Gentle Moonlight when they made me a chief. I was under
the usual age, but had saved the life of Brandt. I will tell
thee the manner of it some other time. Queen Esther's
totem is the wolf.”
“Then you might intermarry with the feathered tribe,”
said Julia, smiling; “and of course the thrush is one of
them.”
“No,” said Charles; “it is not permitted for those of
the same totems to marry.”
“Indeed!”
“But then,” he continued, “my forest sister's totem is
the turtle, or tortoise.”
“And, then, you might marry her?”
“Perhaps, if I desired it. But see! Solo is bristling
up, and growls. Behold, yonder comes Blue Pigeon! He
has sought me at my father's house, and returns to the tree.
Be quiet, Solo! And my poor horse, Yameder, pricks up
his ears. Will you remain? You may, if you desire it;
but you will not understand our language.”
“Yes, I will remain.”
When the Blue Pigeon recognised Charles, after a long
pause, he sprang forward and clasped him in his arms;
and, upon being informed that Julia was the Antelope of
whom he had doubtless heard Brandt speak, he offered his
hand, and uttered the word “sister” in good English. And
Julia, struck by his noble features and perfect form, called
him “brother.”
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“Now, my brother,” said Charles, “my ear is open. I
am ready to hear the words of my mother.”
“The Gentle Moonlight,” said the young warrior, “has
been weeping. Like the dew-drops on the leaves at early
morning, the tears have stood upon her face. Her sister's
children have striven to comfort her, but they have another
mother. `White Eagle,' said she, `has no mother but the
Gentle Moonlight, and she beholds not her son.' She waited
very patiently until the moons were ended during his stay
at college. Then she sang with joy, and the Brown Thrush
also sang with her. But the wings of her noble Eagle did
not cleave the air of the mountain. The dew was not wiped
from her face by the feathers of her darling boy. Thayendanegea
said the White Eagle had come within a short
flight of his mother, but was perched near an Antelope that
had charmed him. Then Queen Esther summoned a council
of the warriors, chiefs, and sachems, and proposed that the
Five Nations should invade this country and burn and slay.
But their ears were closed to her words. It was the land
of the Sagorighwiyogstha, (Doer of Justice,) and if the
Indians loved the young White Eagle, why should not the
pale-faces love him too? Then Gentle Moonlight was permitted
to speak. She said her son had never disobeyed
her. He had said, when his white-haired father led him
away, that he would never cease to love his forest mother.
And he never lied. She would therefore summon him to
her presence, and if he still loved her he would obey. If
he loved the Antelope too, still he would come to the Gentle
Moonlight, and return again to his new charmer. He might
do so, if he desired it. But he must come to his mother,
or she would die. Such were her words, my brother, and
I have given them truly to you.”
“Blue Pigeon, my brother,” said Charles, “you have
seen the dew-drops fall from my eyes when you repeated
the words of my mother. She is the only mother I have
in the world. She loved me ever as the dearest of mothers
only can love. She loves me still. Moons may wane, but
a mother's love does not decline. The White Eagle still
loves the Gentle Moonlight. My brother, look at my face
and repeat my words to my mother. Say I will love her
always. But her Eagle cannot say at the present time
when he will fly to her wigwam;—whether it will be this
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moon or the next. But he will come. He never lies. He
must first see his white-haired father, and hear his counsel;
and he must take leave of the Antelope, who will be sad at
his flight. Go, my brother. Return to the forest by the
clear waters where you and I have hunted the deer and the
bear. We were very happy then. I shall again behold
the wild scenes through which we loved to roam. Tell my
mother I often see her in my dreams. I awake and find
myself near the torn fields of the white man. I hide my
face and try to dream again. I would dream forever. Farewell,
my brother. I have finished until we meet again.”
Charles remained in a profound reverie after Blue Pigeon
had departed, which even Julia did not seek to break until
the silence became painful.
“Is it not as I conjecture?” asked Julia.
“Precisely,” said Charles. “My mother has sent for
me.”
“And you have declined going?”
“No, Julia. She consents to my return hither after
seeing her. I have sent her word that I will come; but I
could not say when. I must consult my father, and also
General Livingston.”
“They will keep you with them or kill you if you again
put yourself in their power,” said she.
“No—I fear nothing. They durst not injure me. War
is not declared by them. I may prevent it. If not, I can
return hither.”
“But will they really consent to it?”
“I suppose so. If not, I could easily escape. Adieu.
I must see my father and send his runner, the boy Skippie,
to General Livingston, or Governor Livingston, or whatever
his title may be by this time. Have your letter for Kate
in readiness; but do not prevail on her to urge her father
to decide against my visit to the lakes. It is only a few
days' travel. At this season the Indians are at home, petitioning
De-o-ha-ho, the spirit who presides over the growth
of corn, beans, and squashes. In the fall they might be
in the great western hunting-grounds beyond the Ohio,
whither Gentle Moonlight sometimes accompanies them,
for she used to take me thither.”
“And you have seen the `Dark and Bloody Ground' in
Kentucky?”
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“Yes, and a fairer land the sun never shone upon.
Many a happy day have I passed under its maples, and
many a blissful dream of Kentucky still illumines my
slumbers. Adieu!”
He galloped away, while the maiden, with a throbbing
bosom, gazed after him until he vanished from her sight.
She then turned her footsteps toward home, warbling a
plaintive ditty, and thinking of the Indian maiden who bore
the name of one of the sweetest of wild-wood songsters.
CHAPTER VII.
PADDY TOMAHAWKED AND SCALPED—CHARLES STARTS ON
HIS JOURNEY WESTWARD.
As had been predicted, William Livingston had been
appointed governor by the people's Colonial Legislature;
and at the moment when Skippie was admitted into his
cabinet the governor was inditing a letter to Charles, urging
him to make an excursion into the Indian country for
the purpose of ascertaining the intentions of the tribes
regarding the war with the mother country, which was now
waged in earnest; so that the visit of the young man to
the fondly-remembered scenes and friends of his youth was
to meet no impediment in that quarter.
And soon after Skippie's return the father of Charles
yielded a reluctant consent to the journey. Mr. Schooley,
whose discretion led him to adopt an obscure and inoffensive
position between the contending parties, but who could not
be induced to relinquish the idea of marrying his son
Richard to Julia, heartily approved the project. But
Julia's objections remained to be overcome. Charles met
her almost daily at the sycamore-tree, and was still beguiled
of many weeks which might have sufficed for performing
the journey.
Meantime, there were rumours of preparations on the part
of the Indians to attack the settlements. These accounts,
so far as it regarded the readiness of the Iroquois to commence
active hostilities immediately, were discredited by
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Charles. He rightly attributed them to the instructions of
Moody and other tories, issued by the agents of the crown
as a means of keeping the people in continual alarm and
preventing them from sending succours to the American
army.
Nevertheless, it was a well-ascertained fact that several
small parties of roving savages had committed depredations
near the Gap and in the valleys on both sides of the Blue
Mountain. A number of horses had been stolen and one
or two men had been killed.
Poor Paddy was rendered very uncomfortable; and Mr.
Green related some new story of Indian warfare every
evening; and, at the conclusion of his horrible tales of
tomahawking and scalping, he never failed to predict that
such scenes would soon be re-enacted in that vicinity.
To such a degree had Paddy's imagination been wrought
upon, that he was often seen running across the garden
upon hearing any unusual noise. His mind seemed to be
filled with fears of snakes and Indians. One day, when
Mr. Schooley, Julia, and Charles were sitting in the hall,
where the hum of the small spinning-wheel and the bang
of the loom assailed their ears, they were startled by the
entrance of Rose, who, with dilated eyes, said Paddy was
mad—stark, staring mad—in the garden, and was then
dancing.
“Does thee say dancing?” asked Mr. Schooley, rising
indignantly; for any thing like dancing was an abomination
in his sight. He was followed by Julia and Charles and
the Newfoundland dog.
Sure enough, Paddy was seen springing about in every
direction, and sometimes leaping up perpendicularly; and
he seemed to be continually striking at something with a hoe.
“What hast thou there, Patrick?” asked Mr. Schooley.
“Och, yer honour, a hundred divils! It was the great
sarpint they tell of in the Apocalypse. It came out and
lifted its head and looked at me face, and so I struck him
across the back and cut him in two.”
“And then thee killed it, I suppose?”
“And would ye suppose it? Take that, ye blackguard!”
he continued, cutting at it again, and then jumping aside.
“Kilt him? Divil a bit, saving yer honour's prisence. But
what d'ye think he did when I cut him in two?”
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“Thee must tell,” said Mr. Schooley, “for I never
guess.”
“Then see here, Miss Julia,” he said, as she approached;
“as I hope to save my sowl, when I cut the baste in two,
both ends began to run afther me! and when I cut them
in two, all four of 'em crawled toward me. And I kept
cutting till there was more than a dozen, and all from one!”
“It was a joint-snake,” said Charles, looking down at
the writhing particles of its body.
“Take care of his head!” cried Paddy, “for it won't
die, and can run when it's not longer than Miss Julia's
swate little toe. And it's a jint-snake ye call it? Well,
I niver seed the likes before.”
“Patrick,” said Mr. Schooley, “it was an unoffending
creature, and thee did wrong to molest it.”
“Then I'm sorra, yer honour; but I was jist thinking
of the bloody Indians, who they say will snake up behint
and strike ye on the back of yer head wid a hard iron
tomahawk. And—”
“Patrick,” said his master, “I see the cows in the
orchard, trampling the new-mown hay. Go and drive
them out.”
“And, Paddy,” said Charles, “keep a good lookout for
Indians.”
“Och, but you're joking now, Misther Charles, for I'm
sure you'd niver be guilty of saying sich things if you
thought any savages were about.”
Paddy set off in a brisk trot, while the rest, amused,
gazed after him. He had not gone more than fifty paces
before he stumbled against the teeth of a rake that had
been left lying on the ground. The handle flew up and
struck him a smart blow on the back of his head, and,
uttering a piercing cry, he fell forward on his face and
lay quite still. Supposing the man might be injured by
the blow, Charles and Mr. Schooley hastened to him, while
Julia followed at her leisure.
“What's the matter, Paddy?” asked Charles.
“Patrick,” said Mr. Schooley, deliberately, “art thou
suffering any pain?”
“Why don't you speak?” demanded Charles, endeavouring
to turn him over so that his face would be visible; and,
after several efforts, he succeeded.
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“Murther! murther! murther!” cried Paddy, in such
stunning tones that even Richard, in the most distant field,
heard him distinctly, and paused in mid-furrow.
“Where art thou injured, Patrick?” asked Thomas; and
then added, since Paddy did not reply, “I saw thee receive
the blow, but did not think it could injure thy head.”
“St. Pater and the Howly Vargin!” cried Paddy, with
his eyes convulsively closed; “I'm dying, dying, dying!”
and the last utterance was the loudest.
“If you are dying, Paddy,” said Charles, “be kind
enough to tell us what killed you.”
“The Indians!” he yelled. “I've been tomahawked
and sculped! One of 'em was standing behint an apple-tree
and hit me on the back of me head! Then another
sculped me! Oh, the blackguards!”
“Nonsense!” said Charles, after a burst of hearty laughter,
in which Julia joined, and which could not be wholly
resisted by the sedate Thomas. “Do you not see we are
laughing at you? Open your eyes, man! We are not Indians.
It was a mistake—a dream.”
“A drame was it?” cried Paddy, sitting upright, and
opening his eyes. “But drames don't hurt,” he continued,
placing his hand against the wounded part. “Och, murther!
I'm sculped!” he cried again, upon beholding blood
on his hand. He fell back and closed his eyes once more.
Charles, upon examination, found he had received a
slight contusion, from which flowed a few drops of blood.
“Here, Paddy,” said he, “is the Indian. Open your
eyes and see him. He is our prisoner.”
“He is? And you've taken the blackguard? Why,
Mr. Charles, that is a rake!”
“It is the Indian that tomahawked and scalped you,
Paddy, for I saw him do it.”
“Saw the rake do it! And you mane to say, Mr. Charles,
that I hit the tathe with my fut, and the helve came up
and struck me behint? And I'm not kilt, then?” he continued,
rising to his feet.
“No, Patrick,” said Mr. Schooley, looking quite angry,
“and yet thee has alarmed the whole plantation. To-morrow,
and the next day, it will be the same thing. There is
no peace where thou art. Thee must leave—”
“Lave! Did your honour say lave?”
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“Thee must leave such idle alarms to the women.”
“Yes, leave them to us, Paddy,” said Julia.
“And it's cowardice you'd be afther charging Patrick
Pence wid? Och, Mr. Thomas, if you could only saa me
blood up onct! Och, murther! look at that!” And Paddy
having pressed the back of his head again, a few more
drops of blood stained his hand. He did not lie down,
however, but resumed his work in the garden.
Months had now passed since Charles had promised to
visit his Indian foster-mother, and he still lingered in the
valley where dwelt his father and Julia. His father, having
at first given permission for the journey with great
reluctance, at length urged him to set out, since Governor
Livingston desired it and he had pledged his word to make
the visit.
Finally, the day of setting out was appointed a fortnight
in advance, and every preparation was made for the event.
Charles decided to resume his Indian dress; and, as Julia
superintended its completion, it may be presumed it was
not deficient in tasteful decoration.
Sergeant Murphy was to be left in charge of the company
which had been formed. The men had been assembled
several times for parade, armed with their own rifles, and
then dismissed to their houses. No orders came for them
to march away, and Governor Livingston had intimated
that it might be necessary for them to remain in their own
county. Richard Schooley had failed to muster; and his
father did not neglect to pay the fine which Murphy was
charged to collect.
Mrs. Van Wiggens's tavern and shop prospered very
well. Her husband, as he had feared, became a mere
cipher under the thumb of his tyrannical spouse. But,
about the time of the departure of Charles, he was recalled
to the plantation of his patron to act again in the capacity
of overseer, in the place of Peter Shaver, who had been
his successor in office, but who, becoming dissatisfied with
his Quaker employer, as it was supposed, or his wages, had
absconded. No one knew whither he had gone. The last
time he had been seen was when setting out one morning
on his crop-eared Indian pony with a bag of grain, which
he said he intended to have ground at a mill some miles
distant. His object was professedly to ascertain if the
-- 087 --
[figure description] Page 087.[end figure description]
Quaker miller they usually patronized had not been in the
habit of taking excessive toll. Peter was a short, fat man,
something like Van Wiggens, and hence was distinctly remembered
by all who had seen him. If he had not absconded,
the supposition was that he had been killed.
And so Van Wiggens was now relieved of the tonguelashings
of Mrs. Van Wiggens during the day, and was a
curious witness of the preparations made by Julia for the
decoration of the young chief, as Charles was often termed.
And more than once he took occasion to intimate that, if
Peter Shaver should return before the day appointed for
commencing the journey, he would rather go into the Indian
country with the White Eagle than return to his wife.
But Peter did not return.
At length the day of departure arrived. Charles had
taken leave of Julia under the sycamore-tree, decked in his
elegant Indian costume. His head-dress was surmounted
with white feathers; his buckskin coat, leggins, and moccasins,
were studded with beads and spangles, or stained porcupine-quills.
His embroidered blanket was folded carefully
and strapped behind the saddle, on which he sat with the
erectness and grace peculiar to the Indians and those who
have dwelt among them. He had his rifle, his tomahawk,
a dirk that McSwine had thrust into his belt, and—what
was shocking to some of the inhabitants—a scalping-knife.
These, with a few indispensable utensils for cooking, comprised
his equipment.
His aged father bestowed his blessing upon him, and, turning
sadly away, shut himself up with his books. Charles,
directing his steed toward the west, disappeared in the
forest, followed by the cheers of his friends and by the
light pursuing step of Skippie, the sandy-haired boy, of
whom it was said he never spoke with his tongue so much
as by his looks and features.
-- 088 --
CHAPTER VIII.
ONE CRYING IN THE WILDERNESS—THE PANTHER AND
TURKEY—PETER SHAVER—GENTLE MOONLIGHT AND
BROWN THRUSH.
[figure description] Page 088.[end figure description]
Once more in the solitude of the forest, Charles loosened
the reins and permitted his noble steed to walk leisurely
along the narrow path. It was one of the old war-paths
of the Indians, leading to the great lakes of the Northwest;
and, although it had become overgrown and indistinct to
those unused to the wilderness, the young man had no difficulty
in discerning it.
The birds sang on every bough or flitted gayly from tree
to tree. The hare sat upright in the wild grass, gazing
without alarm at the solitary wanderer. The doe and her
spotted fawns emerged from the tangled thicket, and drank
of the cool limpid water at the gurgling brook; and the
sun rode gloriously over all in a cloudless sky, gladdening
the myriads of joyous insects that basked in its genial rays.
A balmy breeze cooled the fevered temples of the wanderer;
and, as he looked upon the inspiring scene of mountains,
woods, and streams, sweet memories of the happy
days of his sunlit childhood flitted athwart his mind. They
came like phantoms of pleasant dreams which too quickly
vanish. But he strove to prolong their presence; and,
while he luxuriated in the vision, consciousness of his present
condition gradually faded away. Thus he was again
completely a child of the wilderness, and oblivious of the
flight of the passing hours, until the hooting of the owl
and the darkening of the glades admonished him of the
approach of night. His noble steed, too, had been reared
among the Indians, and seemed to have an instinctive
knowledge of the direction his rider wished to pursue; for
Charles had long ceased to notice the ancient encampments,
the intersecting paths, and the moss upon the northern side
of the trees.
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Nevertheless, after drawing rein and dismounting to
prepare his diminutive encampment, Charles became aware
of his location. He had descended the western side of the
Blue Mountain, and was now upon the narrow bottom of
one of the small trout-streams emptying into the Delaware,
some few miles distant. It was in the midst of a clump
of gigantic trees, whose huge trunks seemed like vast columns
supporting the blue vault above. There was but
little undergrowth, except the wild grass, upon which the
steed was turned loose to graze. No fears were entertained
of the faithful animal deserting him. The horse of
a solitary traveller becomes attached to his master, and
will not relinquish his society.
Charles was at no loss in the forest to provide for his
comfort. With his tomahawk and knife the framework of
his camp was soon completed. The small forks and poles
were furnished by the thicket fringing the base of the
mountain; while the dry bark torn from the trunk of a
gigantic hickory-tree sufficed for the roof to shelter him
from the dew, and also for fuel with which to cook his
simple repast. The rear of the camp was protected by the
trunk of a large fallen tree, and at the opposite end the
fire was kindled; and, while his meat hung before the
crackling fagots, he gathered rushes from the margin of
the brook and elastic twigs from the pendant boughs, with
which he prepared his couch.
While partaking of his frugal meal, the young man
several times observed his horse lift up his head and look
in the direction of the thicket already referred to. The
animal exhibited no signs of alarm, and always, after gazing
a moment, resumed his browsing. Charles did not suppose
it an object worthy of attention. It might be a wolf, a
fox, a raccoon, or some other animal attracted by the light
of the fire or the odour of the meat, and from which there
was nothing to fear. If it had been a bear or a panther,
(and neither of which would be likely to assail him,) his
horse would not have retained his composure. And thus
this noble animal not unfrequently discharges the duty of
a faithful sentinel.
Later in the night the moon arose in brilliance, and her
silvery rays glimmered tremblingly through the thick
foliage slightly agitated by the gentle breeze. The beetles
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chirped pleasantly in cadence with the mournful wail of the
whippoorwill, and the soft approaches of soothing slumber
began to lull the senses of the youth. Spreading his
blanket on the couch, and happening to cast his eyes over
the fallen trunk near which he was about to place his
head, he beheld the face of Skippie.
For a brief interval Charles remained perfectly still and
silent, for he had acquired the Indian habit of suppressing
the symptoms of any sudden emotion.
“Why are you here, Skippie?” he demanded.
“He did not say no,” was the answer.
“My father?”
To this Skippie nodded affirmatively.
“And you asked his permission?”
Again there was an affirmative nod.
“Then come in and eat; and afterward lie down and
sleep.”
Skippie did his bidding in silence. This youth—or rather
dwarf, for the wrinkles on his forehead indicated that he
had long since passed the age of adolescence—was one of
the clan Cameron, and had joined his exiled laird in Canada,
and acted in the capacity of page to his mistress until her
death. Afterward he became a constant attendant on the
exile, and Charles was aware that he had been of great
service to his father in procuring news from distant points,
(for, although exceedingly small, he was very active, and
seemed insensible to fatigue,) and in warning him of approaching
danger on several momentous occasions. And
not the least valuable of his qualifications as a runner—a
term familiar in the Indian country—was his uniform taciturnity.
He heard every thing; but nothing was ever
learned from him by any but his chief or trusted persons
of his household.
Toward morning Charles awoke and rekindled the fire,
but did not lie down again. Perceiving that Skippie
had likewise finished his slumber, he beckoned him to
approach.
“Skippie,” said he, “I have been dreaming of my Indian
mother. I was too young to remember my white
mother. What was she like?”
“Blue eyes, like the sky. Tall, straight, fair skin, and
light hair. An angel.”
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[figure description] Page 091.[end figure description]
“Enough, Skippie! I would not hear another word in
regard to her form and beauty. But was she good?”
“An angel.”
“True. She is in heaven. Was she not religious,
Skippie?”
“An angel,” he repeated.
“I forgot, Skippie. But, Skippie, I cannot help loving
my Indian mother very, very much.”
“She is an angel.”
“Oh, true! you saw her.”
“I found you. I lived in the woods five years, hunting
for you.”
“I did not know that, Skippie. And it may be the reason
why you follow me and seem determined to watch over
me.”
“Right.”
“You mean it is for that reason?”
“I do.”
“I thank you, Skippie; but I am now old enough to
take care of myself; and if any thing occurs during this
visit which it would be desirable for them to know in the
valley, I shall send you thither.”
“So.”
“And you will go?”
“Go,” he replied, with one of his affirmative nods.
The sun arose in great splendour on the second morning,
and after partaking of a hearty meal, which had been prepared
by the skilful Skippie, the travellers pursued their
journey toward the boundary-line of the State of New
York, and passed it in the forenoon. Then, turning to the
left, they followed the old war-path in the direction of the
lakes which ran near the northeastern corner of Pennsylvania.
When the sun was midway in the heavens, Charles faintly
heard a hallooing, and, as the sound appeared to be in the
direction he was pursuing, his pace was quickened. The
cry seemed to proceed from one in distress, and Charles
knew it was not an Indian.
Presently he detected the recent footmarks of a man in
a path that crossed the one he was following; and, as the
halloo was still heard at intervals on the right, he dismounted,
and, throwing the reins to Skippie, proceeded
-- 092 --
[figure description] Page 092.[end figure description]
cautiously in that direction. The path, which followed the
course of one of the small tributaries of the Delaware,
soon emerged from the dense thicket of bushes and entered
the dark woods. And here an unexpected scene awaited
the young adventurer. On his right, and but a few paces
distant, in the forks of a chestnut-tree, was a large panther,
in the act of springing upon him. The animal was
in a crouching attitude, its eyes glaring furiously, and the
point of its tail oscillating rapidly, as is usual with carnivorous
beasts when assailing an enemy or seizing their prey.
The practised eye and steady hand of Charles sufficed
for the emergency. Almost as instantaneously as thought,
the report of his rifle rang through the woods, and the
panther lay struggling in its death-throes at his feet. And
even then the animal might have inflicted a serious wound
had he not been despatched by the dirk of Skippie, who
bounded forward and stabbed him to the heart in the midst
of his convulsive flounderings.
“Done that before!” said he; meaning that he had
stabbed other panthers and escaped their claws.
“But it was not the voice of a panther we heard, Skippie,”
said Charles.
“No!” said a stranger; “but verily the voice of one
crying in the wilderness!”
“Ha!” said Charles, descrying the form of a man in
the same tree the panther had occupied, but upon a perpendicular
branch some twenty feet above the forks, which
he seemed to be hugging with desperate tenacity.
“How did you get up there?” asked Charles, seeing the
limb, which was without lateral shoots, swaying backward
and forward under its heavy burden.
“My son,” said the stranger, who was a man of large
dimensions, “I am uncomfortable here. Let me first contrive
to get down, and then I will speak of the manner of
my getting up.”
“Slide down, sir,” said Charles.
“You are sure he's dead?”
“Quite,” replied Charles, lifting up one of the feet of
the animal and displaying its enormous but harmless claws.
“That was not a pleasant descent,” said the stranger,
after descending more rapidly than he desired, and being
slightly stunned by his collision with the earth; “but,”
-- 093 --
[figure description] Page 093.[end figure description]
he added, “it is the mode of the bear, and they say I am
as hardy as one, if not as rough, sometimes.”
“Now, will you tell me how one of your bulk and
weight could ascend such a pole as that?”
“God aided me, and all things are possible with him.
I know not the manner of it, my friend. I do not recollect
climbing up there, but I suppose I must have done so.
I remember being pursued by the animal, and mounting to
the forks when she was at my heels. Many a panther
have I seen in these wild woods, but never have I been
pursued before. Yet it was my own fault or imprudence;
I killed her young one on the wayside, not supposing its
mother to be within hearing.”
“The mother is never out of hearing,” said Charles,
“when her young are basking in the sunshine. But who
are you? Let me see. The Rev. David Jones! I am
glad to meet you, sir.”
“And you have my solemn assurance, my friend, that I
reciprocate the gladness, although I do not recognise your
face.”
“We have met several times, sir. Once at Princeton,
when you disputed with the Presbyterians—”
“Exhorted—expostulated, my young Christian friend,
as I do not doubt you are a convert from the pagans—a
brand snatched from the fire.”
“Again, at Burlington, where you denounced the doctrines
of Mr. Odell, the Church-of-England minister.”
“Denied—not denounced—universal election, and the
indispensable necessity of the so-called apostolical succession
in the ministry. God is quite as able now as ever to
call labourers into the harvest-field. They might as well
say that none but Jordan's waters would do for baptism.
And I have heard of one of the bishops sending to Palestine
for a bottle of it. The story goes, that, after he had used
it, one of the officers of the ship declared that—and I
believe it, my friend.”
“We met again at the foot of the Jenny Jump Mountain,
where you offered to preach to the Quakers if they
would take their hats off.”
“I did, indeed; and I intended to smite their god Mammon,
but they would not listen.”
“Again, I saw you commune with the Moravians.”
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“That is true. They are a good people, and they
have the true religion, excepting their mode of baptism.”
“And I saw you baptize two negroes in the trout-brook
near the hut of my—”
“Ha! your what? Who are you?”
“One of the negroes—old Rose—would not go into the
water until I killed a rattlesnake that was basking on the
opposite side. And when I had done so, she said it was
the devil, who had stationed himself there to keep her away
from salvation.”
“Now I recollect all that. Oh! you are the young
white man who lived so long with the Indians. That is
the reason you now dress like one. I thought your
speech too good for a savage. And you are college-bred.
Charles Cameron is your name. Give me your hand
again!”
“And now farewell, Mr. Jones,” said Charles. “I must
not withhold you from your good work.”
“Where are you journeying, my young friend?” asked
the preacher, detaining him.
“To the village on the Chemung, where my Indian
mother is spending the summer.”
“We will go together. My route lies in the same
direction. I go thence to the Seneca Lake, and along
Seneca River to the Oneida. They receive the gospel
messenger everywhere with kindness. With my staff and
knapsack, I fear no man, civilized or savage.”
“But only panthers.”
“True—panthers, and sometimes a serpent that crosses
my path. I have a pistol for them, but am apt to forget
it until it is too late to use it.”
“But why were you travelling in this direction?”
“I had turned aside to pray; and when I arose I found
the panther's kitten playing with the string of my moccasin.
I thought it right to destroy the animal; and when
it cried under the edge of my knife, I thought only of the
lambs it would have sacrificed if I had spared it, until
roused by the furious scream of its dam as she came
bounding toward me. Then, as I fled, I thought I had
done wrong.”
“Not so, sir; for we have destroyed them both, and
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[figure description] Page 095.[end figure description]
the skins will be trophies for me to exhibit to my red
brethren.”
Charles then removed the skins from the animals, while
Mr. Jones informed him of all his recent peregrinations.
Since the baptism in the pool of the trout-brook, he had
seen General Washington, and sojourned with his particular
friend, Colonel Wayne, from whom he received instructions
to visit the different tribes in Pennsylvania, New
York, and the West, preaching to them, and persuading
them to remain neutral or else to take up arms in behalf
of the colonies. And he stated, in a confidential tone, (for
he remembered that Charles had organized a company on
the right side,) that he bore, secreted on his person, a commission
in the army as chaplain, and was then on duty—
that which had been assigned him. He had passed through
the Yankee settlement on the Wyoming, where, although the
people were pretty good whigs, they treated the preacher
with less respect than the Delaware Indians on the beautiful
Wyalusing. They seemed to hate the Baptists and
the Quakers, and the Baptists and the Quakers were as far
asunder as the poles
The process of skinning the panthers completed, the
journey was resumed. The Rev. Mr. Jones, at Charles's
urgent solicitation, mounted the horse; while the agile
young man, having had a taste of his old sport, and finding
his appetite still unsatisfied, proposed making a short
hunt through the woods for a fawn, or a fat young buck,
which might be eaten at that season. And he strode away
to gratify his inclination, promising to meet his companions
at a noted spring about a mile distant.
“My son,” said the bulky preacher, as he rode down
the path toward the broader trail which he had crossed
when turning aside to pray, and intently regarding the
lithe form of Skippie, “will you not be very tired travelling
on foot?”
“Tired?” said Skippie, with an abrupt shake of his
head.
“It is a long path we are following, and if you desire it
you may ride behind me.”
The only reply Skippie made to this friendly offer
was a quizzical glance over his shoulder, with a smile of
derision.
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“You are a modest lad,” continued the benevolent Baptist.
“But you need not fear to speak.”
“Fear! The de'il!” at length exclaimed Skippie, without
deigning to turn his head again.
“Boy! you sadly need baptizing to wash away your
foulness, or the birch to teach you better manners.”
“Dirk!” said Skippie, holding over his head the bright
blade of the weapon named.
Mr. Jones could not exactly comprehend the meaning
of the word and gesture; but he concluded that nothing
could be accomplished with so impracticable a subject, and
he ceased to notice him. The dirk, however, could give
him no uneasiness, being incapable of fearing what man
could do, and having really felt some flashes of compunction
when flying from the panther. Finding the lad would
not converse with him, he commenced singing one of his
favourite psalms; and, as he had a musical voice, the woods
soon resounded with his melody.
He continued to sing without interruption until startled
by a frightened gobbler that flapped up from the whortleberry
bushes near the path. It alighted on one of the
lower boughs of a spreading oak, and, with its long neck
stretched out, seemed desirous of listening to the spiritual
song, so different from the sounds usually heard in the
forest. But Mr. Jones was preparing to regale him with a
sound more familiar to his ears. He had drawn forth a
pistol from beneath his black buckskin coat, and was taking
a steady aim, when the turkey fell headlong to the earth,
his neck almost severed by the rifle-ball of Charles, who
had approached Mr. Jones to request him to cease singing,
as it frightened the deer.
“A capital shot, that!” said Mr. Jones, leaping from his
horse and lifting up the gobbler. “I am glad to see you
again,” he added, as Charles stepped forward with a smile
on his lip.
“Why do you call it a capital shot?” asked Charles;
while Skippie sank down and rolled over in convulsions of
suppressed merriment.
“I aimed at his body, I confess,” said Mr. Jones, with
gravity; “but the ball rose in a straight line and broke
his neck. It was a good shot for a pistol, and the distance
must have been fifty paces.”
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“At least,” said Charles, comprehending the mistake
of the Baptist, and having no disposition to undeceive
him.
“Pistol!” said Skippie, through his tears of silent
laughter.
“Certainly, a pistol, my lad. Why do you laugh at my
capital shot?” demanded Mr. Jones.
“Is not your pistol cocked, Mr. Jones?” asked Charles,
seeing the reverend gentleman replacing the weapon in his
bosom.
“Bless my life! But there was no danger, it being
empty.”
“Empty!” reiterated Skippie.
“Yes, empty. Did I not just kill the turkey? What's
this? No!” he continued, seeing the priming remained,
and inserting the ramrod. “I don't remember reloading
it. I am sure I did not. How can it be explained?”
“I can explain it, Mr. Jones,” said Charles. “I have
no doubt you would have struck the mark, but then you
might have spoiled the breast of the turkey; so I fired at
his neck, and killed him before you had time to complete
your aim. You thought the report came from your pistol,
and, on seeing the gobbler fall, it was natural to suppose
you had killed it.”
“It must have been so! Well, we shall have food, at
all events. The circumstance reminds me of what occurred
to one of our Pennsylvania volunteers at Braddock's defeat.
Without observing that he had lost the flint from his gun,
he kept on pulling the trigger and ramming down cartridges.
Some of the men say he declared, as they retreated, that
his shoulder was black and blue from the rebounds. But
I don't believe that portion of the story.”
As the shades of evening descended, the party encamped
near the bank of the Delaware, on a level piece of ground,
where a small rivulet flowed through a cleft in the hills
toward the river. Here the turkey was dressed and cooked
by Skippie, while Charles stretched and dried his panther-skins.
At supper a most ravenous appetite seemed to have
seized upon them all, and the two youngest could not avoid
evincing some anxiety for the termination of Jones's
lengthy prayer. He not only invoked blessings on his
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young companions, but desired they might speedily return
to a Christian community. He asked that the savages
might be converted and baptized; that they might be inspired
with a resolution never to shed the blood of their
white brethren who had settled in their forests; and, finally,
that the counsels of the Continental Congress might have
the heavenly guidance, and the cause in which they were
embarked be gloriously triumphant.
And, after his emphatic “Amen,” he arose and silently
gazed in every direction. He did not explain; but Charles
attributed his conduct to the force of habit, knowing it to
be unsafe in many places to utter such patriotic petitions.
“Now, fall to, boys, and help yourselves,” said Mr.
Jones, resuming his seat before the fire, and literally tearing
the smoking turkey in two by the drumsticks; and in
the course of ten minutes all that remained of the gobbler
were his bones, his bill, and his toe-nails.
In the night, when the blazing fire made the scene cheerful,
and when all were in a comfortable condition after
their hearty meal, Mr. Jones would have given vent to his
grateful feelings in songs of praise, had it been deemed
prudent. If there should happen to be a war-party in the
vicinity, on a nocturnal march,—a thing neither probable
nor impossible,—they might be attracted thither; and so
the tuneful inclination was repressed.
But Mr. Jones felt no hesitation in relating his adventures
on the Ohio River the preceding year, when
acting in the capacity of a missionary among the Western
tribes. He was relating a scene of burning at the stake,
a sentence sometimes executed on prisoners,—a proceeding
which Mr. Jones did not consider so barbarous as the burning
of Protestants in enlightened Old England or of Quakers
in puritanical New England, on account of their religious
belief,—when they were startled by the loud snorting of the
horse as he ran toward the camp. In the moonlight it
was perceivable that the faithful animal's ears were thrust
forward, as he turned his head over his back; and his eyes,
catching the rays of the fire, became illuminated like
globules of glass at a white heat.
The object causing the alarm was evidently between the
camp and the river; and perhaps an enemy might be
crouching behind the slight embankment, not twenty paces
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distant, taking a deadly aim at the hitherto unconscious
travellers.
Charles turned his face in the direction of the intruder,
so unerringly indicated by the horse, and gazed steadfastly,
while Skippie prostrated himself and applied his ear
to the ground.
“As for my part,” said Mr. Jones, taking from his
pocket a worn Testament, bound in black leather, or leather
blackened by time, “here is my defence, and it never
failed me yet.” So, turning over the leaves, he began to
read such passages as he deemed the most appropriate on
such an occasion.
“I see!” whispered Charles, raising his rifle noiselessly.
“It is an Indian.”
“One!” said Skippie, rising, and unsheathing his dirk.
“And we are three,” said Mr. Jones, lifting his eyes
from the page, and placing one hand on his pistol; “but
do not be the first to fire; he may be a friend.”
“I am only in readiness,” said Charles, endeavouring
to fix his aim. “If he raises his gun, then I will be
justified in pulling trigger.”
But he did not raise his gun. On the contrary, his
head, scalp-lock and all, sank down and vanished behind
the slight embankment, and the next moment his voice was
heard, saying, in very good English—
“Don't shoot! I'm a friend.”
“What friend?” asked Mr. Jones, in his full, loud voice,
rendered strong by much preaching. “What nation, if
you are an Indian?”
“I'm a white man,” said the stranger.
“He is, at least, in Indian costume, like myself,” said
Charles.
“Yes, but I'm white, though,” said the stranger, hearing
the last speech, and now approaching boldly. “And
you see I haven't got a gun. So there's no danger.”
“Do you call yourself a white man, my friend?” asked
the preacher, staring like the rest at the curious aspect of
the stranger. He was one of those short fat men we
sometimes see who have no necks, their heads growing out
between their shoulders. He wore leggins, hunting-shirt,
and blanket; his head had been shaved, the scalp-lock
alone remaining; and his face, plump and round, with a
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scarcely-discernible point of a nose, had been fantastically
painted—one side being red, with sundry black spots interspersed,
and the other altogether black.
“Yes; I'm a white man,” said he, “like two of you; but
I've been living with the savages, and they painted me. I
thought once or twice when I stooped down to drink that
my face looked black. Is it very dark?”
“Black, my friend,” said Mr. Jones, “on one side.”
“I thought they were making sport of me!”
“Who are you? your name?” demanded Charles.
“I've a famous big name! One of their greatest chiefs
is called Cornplanter, or Cornstalk—I disremember which;
and so they called me Popcorn.”
“What was your name before you lived among the Indians?”
asked Mr. Jones, seeing Charles's diversion.
“Oh, I'm Peter Shaver, among the whites.'
“True!” said Charles. “I thought I knew your voice,
Peter; but they have so disguised you that your own
mother wouldn't recognise you. Here, look in this small
mirror.”
Peter looked and stood aghast, while the rest could not
refrain from hearty laughter.
“I'll take his sculp for it!” cried he. “I'll be revenged,
if I have to lose my life! The tarnationed, rascally savage!
If I ever meet him—and I've a notion to go back—I'll have
his sculp or his sculp-lock! And if I can't find him, I'll
give some other red devil a terrible thrashing!”
“Suppose you begin with me,” said Charles.
“I don't care!” said the indignant Peter. “If these
gentlemen will see fair play, and you won't use any thing
but your fists—”
“Stranger,” said Mr. Jones, rising to his feet and
placing his hand on Popcorn's shoulder, “if you are a
friend, and come in peace, sit down and eat such as we
can spare you, or else depart. This is our camp, and you
are our guest; but you will be thrust out if you do not
behave yourself. Know that Charles Cameron is no blackguard,
to fight with his fists like the degraded bullies of the
ring.”
“Charles Cameron! It is, by jingo! Oh, I beg your
pardon a million times! And you are no Indian, no more
nor me! Don't you know me?—Peter Shaver?”
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“I know you very well, Peter, and have been merely
jesting when perhaps I should have been very serious.
Sit down and eat. You are too late for the turkey, but
the jerked beef may suffice. Eat and smoke, and then
tell us your adventures;—why you left your employer's
service, and how you came to be dwelling among the
Indians.”
Peter, having a most voracious appetite, as he had a
most capacious stomach, without further parley assailed
the viands set before him.
When he had finished his meal he related his story substantially
as follows. On the day he set out from Mr.
Schooley's house to visit the mill he was seized by two Indians.
They threatened to tomahawk him if he made any
resistance or attempted to escape. He was compelled to
dismount. One of them led the way on foot, while the
other followed on his iron-gray pony. When any one approached
they plunged into the inaccessible recesses of the
forest, and remained silent and still until the way was
clear, and then ventured forth again, avoiding the most
frequented paths. Peter strove in vain to ascertain their
purpose. He could not learn to what nation his captors
belonged, nor why they had made him their prisoner. The
only name he could understand—which they pronounced
in the usual way—was Girty's; and he came to the conclusion
that the noted leader of the British and Indian
borderers might have discovered some great merit in
him, or military qualification, which had superinduced his
arrest.
When encamped for the night, Peter was permitted to
recline before the fire in dignified silence, while the Indians
prepared his food and filled his pipe, and manifested
other indications of a high appreciation of his importance.
The second day the journey was prosecuted with less
caution, and at night his two captors signified to Peter
that it was time for him to “be Indian too.” So they
shaved all his hair off but the scalp-lock, painted his face
red, gave him a blanket, leggins, moccasins, &c. They
laughed, however, at the manner of his carriage or the
singularity of his attitudes, and seemed to make several
animated speeches on the subject. They then addressed
themselves to Peter, who, not understanding a word they
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had said, made no response, although they patiently
awaited one. Then they gave vent to explosions of laughter,
and jabbered more, while their stoical captive snored
before the fire.
After several days of moderate travel, during which the
Indians seemed to be mindful of the comfort of their
captive, they arrived in the vicinity of Lake Cayuga. Here
they were met by many people of the Mohawk and Oneida
tribes. But most conspicuous among them were two squaws,
one of middle age and the other quite young, and both, as
Peter declared, very beautiful, with the exception of their
pink skins. They came running toward him with their
arms extended; and, Peter said, he also opened his. But
they stopped abruptly when within a few paces of him,
and, very impolitely turning up their noses, likewise turned
upon their heels and walked away. They hung down their
heads, as if ashamed of something, or disappointed in the
man they had sent for.
A few moments after, and while hundreds were standing
round, a chief stepped forward and made a fierce speech to
Peter's captors, who stood in silent shame. Then such
shouts were heard as never assailed his ears before. They
were shouts of laughter, loud and prolonged. After which
the chief, who had scolded his captors, approached Peter,
and informed him, in very good English, that the stupid
Minisinks had brought them the wrong man. But Peter's
joy on hearing this was dashed a little when told that he
had better return immediately, or the enraged Indians
might do him an injury. Peter's experience among the
Indians, however, had hitherto been so agreeable that he
could not be apprehensive of a change of treatment, and
so he wandered forward into the village in quest of something
to eat. The eldest of the women whom he had seen
sent him victuals, with a message to depart. He lingered,
nevertheless, while occasional bursts of merriment still assailed
his ears.
Finally, the chief seized him by the ear and led him out
of the village, pointing to where the pony had been left,
and shoving the indignant captive in that direction. But
Peter's pony had been taken, and in its place was a jackass
of similar color, but whose sides had been variegated by
the brush of a savage artist; and the sullen animal now
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resembled the zebra,—a beast he had once seen at a snow.
They told Peter his pony had been “swapped” for the
jackass, and that he must mount and ride away; and,
after a moment's reflection, and concluding it might be a
very good swap, and an acquisition in the Jenny Jump
settlement, he leaped upon the beast. Then Popcorn, as
they called him, was cheered by the multitude; and the
ass, either guided by the thong or frightened by the deafening
sounds, turned his head in a southeastern direction
and trotted off, braying so loudly that all other noises were
utterly obliterated.
“They had put some corn-cakes and dried meat in my
bag,” said Peter, “and swapped for my corn as well as
my pony. But the consumed jackass kept trying to bite
me, and every now and then roared like a lion. It took
me two whole days to learn how to manage him. I found
out I could only do it by knocking him down with a club.
Then he was always gentle enough till next morning. But
I lost the right path, and travelled in several wrong ones.
And I can't tell how I got here at all, unless the jack came
of his own accord and was raised by the whites. And
now, gentlemen,” continued he, “as I understand you are
going to come back soon from the Indian country, I would
be glad to travel with you, as I know I shall never find the
way home by myself, and I want to whip the Indian who
painted me.”
“Not find the way home,” said Mr. Jones, “when you
are on the bank of the Delaware River! What better guide
would you have?”
“But I can't keep on it,” said Peter; “and I don't
know which side I'm on.”
“Not know which side you're on! Can't you see which
way the current runs?”
“Yes, I can see that.”
“Well, when you stand with your face down-stream,
don't you know which hand the river is on?—your right
or your left?”
“I'm terribly bewildered! I cannot tell, indeed, sir.”
“Nonsense! Not know your right hand from your left?”
“But I'm left-handed, sir! Or, rather, I use one hand as
well as the other, and never could tell which was right and
which was wrong.”
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“This is my right hand,” said Mr. Jones, “next to your
left. You can remember that, can't you?”
“Yes, if you are always at hand to remind me.”
The reverend gentleman could restrain his merriment
no longer; and even the taciturn Skippie could hardly avoid
giving vent to loud bursts of laughter.
Charles remained silent in troubled meditation. It was
not to be doubted that Peter had been captured by the
stupid messengers in the belief that it was himself. They
had evidently seen him ride away from the house of Mr.
Schooley, and, being strangers to the person of the one
they had been employed to seize, the mistake had been
committed. The kind treatment on the way, the assembling
of the tribe,—among whom he had many acquaintances,—
and the eagerness of the two women to meet him, who must
have been Gentle Moonlight and Brown Thrush, rendered
what was merely a conjecture as Peter proceeded with his
story a certainty at its conclusion.
Without deciding whether Peter should accompany them
back into the Indian country or continue his solitary journey,
preparations were made for sleeping, by enlarging the
shelter and widening the couch. But, before the eyes of
the party were closed, they were roused by the braying of
the ass at no great distance. The sounds of his voice
reverberated through the great valley of the Delaware, and
were re-echoed by every ledge of cliffs. The wolves and
owls were silenced by the stupendous roar, far more hideous
than any uttered by themselves.
“He's in a grass-swamp about a half mile up the bank,”
said Peter. “When I saw your fire, I didn't know but
you might be savages, and so I crawled here alone. If
you hadn't taken me in, I should have gone to bed without
my supper, as my provisions gave out yesterday. But I
made a pin-hook this morning, and caught two trouts. One
of 'em was a foot long, and made a good breakfast. I
had some salt left, but you know I couldn't eat that by
itself. And I had a knife and flint, and struck a fire.”
In this manner Peter's tongue ran on until the rest of
the travellers were slumbering soundly.
The next morning it was left optional with Peter whether
to return with the travellers to the Indian country or
to pursue his solitary way across the Blue Mountain to the
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white settlements. He chose the former, repeating his
determination to whip the two Minisink Indians who had
captured and painted him.
Nothing further worthy of special notice occurred until
the party arrived in the vicinity of the southern extremity
of Lake Cayuga. They were approaching the village
where the foster-mother of Charles often spent the summer,
and in the neighbourhood of which she held a large tract
of rich land inherited from her mother.
Charles paused, and, placing his hands over his mouth,
uttered the loud halloo he had so often sounded in his
youth when returning from distant expeditions with the
sons of the chiefs and sachems. Soon there was a reply
which produced an animated expression of pleasure on his
handsome features; and, as they drew nearer the village,
numbers of men were seen running toward them through
the beautiful grove in which the town was situated.
The foremost of those who came out to receive the
adopted son of Gentle Moonlight was Calvin, the young
Delaware chief who had been educated with Charles at
college. They embraced, and shed tears of joy, for they
had always been very intimate friends.
“They had concluded you would not come,” said
Calvin.
“And then they sent the Minisinks to seize me: did they
not?” demanded Charles.
“I think so,” said the other; “but they do not confess
it. Ha! I see you have Popcorn with you!”
“Yes, I'm back agin,” said Peter; “and when I set eyes
on those nasty Minisinks there'll be a fight.”
“Let me advise you to be peaceable,” said the other.
“You may get into danger.”
Peter, struck by his manner, remained silent. The
Rev. Mr. Jones was surrounded and welcomed by many
of his Indian acquaintances as they approached the town.
Very soon the news of the voluntary return of the
White Eagle spread through the village; and, when led by
his friends to one of the principal wigwams, he was clasped
in the arms of his foster-mother, who held him long in
silence, while the Brown Thrush, smiling and weeping
alternately, sang one of the wild songs Charles had so often
listened to with delight.
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“My sister,” said Charles, when released from the embrace
of his mother, and at the same time kissing her tearful
cheek, “thou hast not forgotten the words of thy
brother when we parted many moons ago. It is the song
you promised to sing when he returned. And didst thou
never forget thy brother?”
“How could I?” said she. “The ripples murmured in
the bright sunlight, as they did when we played together on
the margin of the merry brook, and the soft sound was
like the low voice of my brother. The bright stars danced
in gentle glimmers, as they had done when we wandered
together in the silent night. The fawn you gave me followed
my lonely steps and bleated for thee. The wildroses
blossomed, and withered, and fell, because thou wert
away. And, oh, my brother, the Thrush was drooping
her head, and would have died, if thou hadst remained
with the Antelope! And thou dost ask if I did not sometimes
forget my brother? How could I?”
“Thou couldst not—nor I thee, my sister! In my
dreams we met again in the solitude of the great forest,
where the birds sang in safety and no rude foot crushed
the violets. We sat beneath the lofty arch of the giant
trees, and the sparkling waters murmured their low melody
at our feet. Ha-wen-no-yu, the great Father of all good
spirits, looked down from the blue sky and smiled upon us.
And he heard the prayer we uttered:—that, after age had
crept over us and we had closed our eyes upon the scenes
of this world, we might meet again in the great hunting-grounds,
and still wander together as loving sister and
brother.”
“And what did he speak?”
“He seemed to smile upon my request.”
“Then, oh, Kacha Manito, I pray thee bring age upon
us soon, so that we may close our eyes and depart for that
happy land! My brother, thy sister too has dreamed.
She thought thou wert separated from her by a great
chasm, over which neither of us could pass. And when you
attempted to leap over, the Antelope ran before thee; and
when I strove to come to thee, she frowned and bade me
remain; so there was no more happiness in this life, and
I prayed the good Kacha Manito to remove us both to that
happy land!”
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“But these were merely dreams, my sister, and we
should not be troubled by them. You see I can come to
thee, and thou canst come to me. The Antelope will smile
when she beholds you, and beckon you over the chasm.
And thou must smile, too. The Thrush will love the Antelope;
and soon, when I return to my father, both you
and my mother must go with me.”
“My son,” said his foster-mother, after a short silence,
during which the musing maiden made no reply, “the warriors
of the nations are assembling at the Great Island,
between the broad lakes, (Ontario and Erie,) where the
council-fire is burning. From the shores of the salt water,
where the sun rises from the blue deep, to the rolling
prairies, where it sets, the chiefs are coming. They are
digging up their tomahawks and sharpening their arrows
for war. It was for this reason I sent thee word to come.
I longed to behold thee once more. And I desired that
thy voice might be heard in the council. Thou art my
representative, and they will listen to thy words. I will
go with thee, and the sweet Thrush shall sing the song of
peace on the way; and, when we see the smoke of the
council-fire ascending, it may charm the ear of the fierce
Thayendanegea, thy brother and her brother. And then,
if the hatchet be buried again, we will go with thee to thy
white-haired father, and behold the beautiful eyes of the
Antelope.”
“My mother,” said Charles, “your words sound like
music in my ear, and I will obey thee.”
Then, while a sumptuous repast was in preparation,
Charles regarded his Indian mother and sister in silent
admiration. They were fairer than most families of the
Iroquois, and, unlike the majority of them, had oval faces
and regular features of delicacy and beauty.
Bartholomew Calvin, the young Delaware chief, who
sat beside Charles, had lingered among the lakes much
longer than had been anticipated; and the Thrush was the
magnet which attracted him. Charles could not avoid
perceiving it, and he knew not whether to be angry or
pleased with his friend for presuming to love his sister.
But there were no indications of his passion being reciprocated;
and it was not to be supposed that either Gentle
Moonlight or the passionate Brandt would promote the
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alliance, unless the “Tamed Terrapin,” as they called him,
or the degenerate son of the Algonquins, would throw away
his Christianity or his civilization and take up his abode
among them in the forest.
CHAPTER IX.
NIAGARA—THE CAPTIVES—POPCORN—THE JOURNEY
WESTWARD.
The next day they set out for the Great Council-Fire,
between the broad lakes, where the earth was shaken by the
roar of mighty waters, and where Heno, the Spirit of
Thunder, sat in his majesty and hurled his bolts at the
enemies of heaven.
The cavalcade (all now being mounted) consisted of
some twenty warriors, with their sisters and mothers,—the
latter always having a voice in the ratification of treaties;
and it was understood that, as usual, the pale-faces would
strive to negotiate for more of their land. They had been
preceded the day before by a very large delegation of
Senecas, who were, with the exception of Red Jacket,
(whose father was a Cayuga) in favour of war—war against
the Colonies.
The Rev. Mr. Jones gladly availed himself of this
opportunity of meeting the representatives of so many
tribes. And Peter Shaver, having not yet succeeded in
finding his enemies, vowed his purpose to look for them
around the Great Council-Fire, and to chastise them wherever
he might see them. The young Delaware chief,
melancholy and sighing, followed in silence.
As Peter endeavoured to urge his long-eared charger
forward, there was a very boisterous exploison of laughter.
Some of the boys had inserted pepper under the tongue of
the jackass, and as he trotted along he kept up for some
distance an incessant braying; and while the boys yelled,
and the men uttered every conceivable sound and some
that were certainly inconceivable, poor Peter could only
gesticulate with his clenched fists and threaten vengeance.
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This amused his tormentors the more, even while they admitted
“Popcorn,” as they called him, was a brave man;
and he was no coward, as the sequel will show.
Our party were welcomed to the Great Council by
Brandt himself; and a vast number of Charles's old playmates,
now chiefs and warriors, crowded round him and
renewed their professions of friendship and attachment.
But Charles perceived with regret the greater number
of white men mingling with the Indians were British
agents. Sir John Johnston, John Butler and his son
Walter, Girty, and McKee, as well as the implacable Queen
Esther, were there.
The chiefs were the first to speak. White Eyes, an
aged chief of the Western Delawares, had the precedence,
and he was in favour of peace and alliance with the Americans;
but Captain Pipe, another chief of the same band,
declared for the British.
The Caugnawagas all spoke in favour of the British;
while, the only Cherokee who spoke at all took the opposite
side. The Shawnees were inclined to join the Colonies,
but could never do so, so long as the death of Cornstalk, a
great chief, and his son, Elenipsico, remained unavenged.
They had been killed in a Western fort because the whites
believed some of the Shawnees had murdered a Mr. Gilmore.
Mr. Gilmore had been shot and scalped by Elliot,
an English agent, for the purpose of producing such a
result.
The chiefs of the Five Nations permitted the chiefs of
other tribes to be heard first, because they had come a
great distance to meet them there; and when the representatives
of the various Western tribes had uttered their
sentiments, Thayendanegea rose and spoke in favour of
war—war against the Americans. He said, “States are
ungrateful, like men. The first pale-faces that landed on
our soil were poor, and we pitied them. We gave them
land, and they grew rich. Then they despised us, and
sought our destruction. So with the Colonies. When they
were weak, and the people few in number, we were termed
the lords of this broad continent, and their humble petitions
were addressed to us. Now they consider themselves
the lords, and would drive us from our inheritance. Let
us conquer them or die. Death in battle is preferable to
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degradation in life. Such is my judgment. But we will
have the warriors of our great father over the broad water
to aid us, and we shall be victorious. If we do not embrace
this opportunity, we shall never have another. If we remain
neutral, who will assist when the victor in the present
contest shall assail us? No matter which party is beaten,
the other will some day drive us from our fathers' graves.
Rather let us be buried in them!”
Charles was then permitted by the aged chiefs, as a
special act of courtesy, to follow his foster-brother. He
said he could not agree with his brother. The Americans
were not to be dreaded so much as the British. The oppression
came from the government beyond the ocean;
and, if they oppressed their own people, how could it be
supposed they would spare the Indians? He was in favour
of a strict neutrality, unless the Indians should be unanimously
inclined to join the Colonies—a thing he did not
look for.
Sir John Johnston ridiculed the idea of permitting boys
to speak in council, but admitted that the mother of
Charles had a right to send him there. He controverted
what had been said with indignant warmth.
Simon Girty next spoke in behalf of the royal cause.
He made a very great impression by means of ingenious
falsehood. Professing to be quite conversant with the
purposes of the Americans, he announced that they intended
to exterminate the Indians as the shortest way to
possess their lands. And this declaration was substantiated
by McKee and Elliot, all renegade tories.
Red Jacket replied to Girty, and said he derived no
right from his mother to speak in the council, and especially
to utter lies. He was in favour of neutrality. If
they participated in the war at all, many of their brethren
would fall. That was inevitable. And they would
be weakened. If they kept aloof, the victor, whether
America or England, would be weakened from losses and
weary from suffering, while the Indians would be strong
and more numerous than ever. That was their best
security.
Young Bald Eagle, of the Pottawatomies, called Red
Jacket a coward,—all words and no blows.
A Wyandot chief did the same.
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A Mingo chief sustained the last two speakers, and
declared for war against the Americans.
A Shawnee chief said his nation was divided, one-half
agreeing with the Western Delawares to remain
neutral.
The Oneidas, influenced by the Rev. Samuel Kirkland,
who was present, announced their determination to remain
at peace with the Americans.
The British officers then proposed to expel the missionaries
from the council, and an intense excitement prevailed.
Many tomahawks, which had been concealed, were
brandished, and the utmost efforts of the sachems and
chiefs were required to prevent the white men from desecrating
the council-house with blood. They arrived at no
other definite result than an agreement of those favourable
to the British to meet again at Oswego.
Then a general dispersion took place, and our party prepared
to return to the village they had set out from, near
the head-waters of the Susquehanna.
The friendly Shawnees, Delawares, Cherokees, and Oneidas,
were encamped on the same ground; while the tribes
committed to the British cause kept aloof, and regarded
them with looks of anger and aversion. The two missionaries,
and the foster-mother and sister of Charles, as
well as Charles himself and the redoubtable “Popcorn,”
were in the midst of the former.
In the evening Brandt came alone to the tent of his
aunt, and sat down in gloomy silence between Charles and
his sister.
“Oh, my brother,” said his sister, “do not go with
them to Oswego. Come with us to the peaceful vale where
the south winds are sighing sweetly through the quivering
leaves.”
“No, sister,” said he, sadly. “The war-whoop is heard
on the shores of the northern lake. The war-paths are
open. The tomahawks have been dug up. Thy red brother
must lead the van of the battle. He must not kill his
white brother.”
“No!” cried the Thrush. “He would not do it if he
met him in battle!”
“But Thayendanegea's people might kill him. The
White Eagle must remain with his brother.”
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“The White Eagle is free,” said Charles, “and may soar
whithersoever he chooses.”
“No!” said Brandt.
“What does my brother mean?”
“The White Eagle must not be pierced by the arrows
of his red brother. He must not, then, stand before the
bow. He must remain with his sister, among the women,
if he will not fight the American pale-faces. Then the
White Eagle must have some other name. He will no
longer be a chief. They will call him the Frightened
Hare!”
“Never!” said Charles. “I will lead my white people
against the British. Let my red brother keep from before
our rifles!”
“The Thrush will go with the White Eagle,” said the
maiden, “and sing him to sleep, so that he shall not harm
his red brother.”
“The Brown Thrush must go with Thayendanegea,” said
the chief.
“No!” said his aunt, speaking for the first time,
although she had been an attentive listener. “My sister's
daughter now has no mother but me. My sister is dead.
My sister's son, listen to my command. The Thrush shall
not go with you.”
“My mother's sister, my ears are open. What you
have said has entered them, and you must be obeyed.”
“My sister's son,” she continued, with deliberation, “the
Brown Thrush shall go with the White Eagle.”
“You command it. It must be so. But whither will
they go? You cannot command the three thousand warriors
whose chiefs have decided that my white brother
shall not return to the pale-faces until the war is ended.”
“False, treacherous, perfidious Thayendanegea!” said
Charles. “And this is the cowardly work of the one I
have loved and trusted! No more my brother! Henceforth
we are foes!”
“My brother, do not make my blood boil over. Another
had died ere the speech were finished. Thayendanegea did
nothing. He knew it not until the chiefs had decided.
He did not approve it, but he could not oppose it. He
loves his brother still. He waits to hear his brother's
next words.”
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“Forgive me, my brother!” said Charles, with tears in
his eyes. “I ask my brother's pardon.”
“It was the Malcha Manito, and not my brother. But
what can my brother do? The warriors surrounding him,
who will not declare war against his white brothers, will
not oppose the decree of the chiefs. They are not ready
to fight their red brothers.”
“I will escape. You know the White Eagle can soar
above his enemies.”
“But whither will he direct his flight? He will not find
the Antelope in the peaceful vale.”
“My brother speaks no fables,” said Charles, pale, and
deeply moved.
“No. Thayendanegea cannot say what is not true.
His brother's white sister has been, ere this, conveyed
away. It was the decree of the chiefs, solicited by the
Queen of the Senecas; but she cannot be injured. You
are unhappy?”
“Oh,” cried the Indian maiden, “let her be brought
hither, or go where we go, and I will kiss away her tears
and sing her to sleep!”
“Sister's son,” said the aunt, “let it be so.”
“It will be so,” he replied. “Such is the purpose of
the one who decided every thing, and whose decision was
merely ratified by the chiefs.”
“And that was old Esther,” said Charles.
“Queen Esther,” said Brandt.
“My brother,” said the Delaware chief, Calvin, who had
hitherto remained a silent listener, addressing Charles, “I
will remain with you, or we will go together, whithersoever
the great Ha-wen-no-yu, or our Holy Father, may direct
our steps.”
“Farewell!” said Brandt, rising. “The maple-leaf is
red. It has been painted by the first frosts. Ere it falls
we may meet again. Our lodges must be replenished with
meat, and our women must gather the corn. And before
the war-trail winds toward the sea we may hunt the buffalo
in the West.”
And he was gone before his mother's sister could interrogate
him further. And not many minutes afterward the
approach of Queen Esther was announced by fife and
drum, which had been presented her by the British.
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Queen Esther, or Catharine Montour, decked in guady
habiliments, entered, and sat in their midst, upon a large
scarlet robe spread for her by one of the attendants.
This woman—who had acquired an almost despotic influence
over the Senecas, the most powerful of the Six Nations,
by her incantations and superior intellect—was herself
a white woman, or the daughter of the half-Indian
wife of one of the noble French governors of Canada—
Frontenac, it has been said. She had been stolen by the
Indians when an infant, and raised among them. She
married a chief, and never could be induced to return to
her white kindred.
She was now in the eightieth year of her age, and her
face was but a concentration of wrinkles, although she had
once been handsome and accomplished.
“Ha, Gentle Moonlight,” said she, with a sardonic
smile, “there is a cloud upon thy face! Oh, yes! I did
it; it was me. War, war to the hilt! My work. Blood
must flow. Brandt shall be the Grand Sachem at Oswego.
He shall be king; but he shall be the head-warrior, too.
And why don't you command this young Eagle to marry
the poor Thrush? and then we would make him a great
prince. Oh that he was a Seneca! I would order him
to marry; and no one disobeys me. What! dost frown
at me? Tut, boy! But you won't escape. I have too
wise a head for that. You will not leave your darling
Antelope? Oh, no! Well, then, you shan't. She will
come to you. That was Queen Esther's wit! Adieu!
Go peaceably and submissively to the West, on the Scioto,
or cross over to the `Dark and Bloody Ground,' as some
call it,—but it is neutral now,—and hunt the deer and
buffalo. But do not destroy the Antelope!”
Without permitting any one to reply, she arose and departed,
preceded by her martial music.
Shortly afterward, Charles was roused from his abstraction
by the quiet entrance of Skippie, who stood before
him and said—
“Going!”
“Going, Skippie?”
“I.”
“I understand. Tell my father—”
“All. Know all.”
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And before Charles could utter another word Skippie
was gone.
Shortly after this, Charles was again startled by a tremendous
uproar among the boys. It appeared that, in imitation
of their fathers, they had been holding a council.
They had their interpreter, who rendered every thing in
plain English to Peter Shaver, who was present. Very
soon Peter was informed that he had been elected king.
And, upon desiring to know where his subjects were to
be found, they informed him he should be ruler over all
the Capitanasses. There had been a tribe of that name
in Jersey, although Peter was not aware of it. Peter,
therefore, supposing he had been made the laughing-stock
of the boys, being called King of the Capitanasses because
he rode an ass, indignantly withdrew. They followed,
whooping and crying, “Popcorn, King of the
Capitanasses!” The men laughed heartily as Peter strode
over the ground toward the camp of Gentle Moonlight.
And, as he approached, he espied the Minisink Indian who
had put the dark stains on his face, and which no process
of washing and rubbing he could employ had yet removed.
Finding the Indian merry at his expense, he threw aside
his blanket and charged upon him with his fists. Now,
although Peter was short and fat, and rather short-winded,
he was somewhat scientific in the use of his fists. A ring
was instantly formed around the combatants, with shouts
and cries of merriment. The Minisink strove in vain to
get the “Indian hug” on Peter. Peter planted his blows
with such precision and rapidity that his adversary was
forced back, and, as he retreated, dodging from one side to
another, Peter was applauded by the spectators. Finally,
Peter succeeded in planting a blow on the stomach of the
Indian, which laid him on the ground, and then the victor
would have been content to drop the quarrel. Not so the
Indian. Incensed and suffering, he drew his knife and
made several desperate lunges, which were warded off with
difficulty. The spectators interfered, and disarmed the
Indian, who threatened to be revenged on some future occasion,
while the boys conducted their new chief and champion
in triumph to his tent.
But the bruised Minisink soon found sympathizers; and
as the British agents, under the guise of peddlers, had
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distributed no small quantity of rum among the men, there
soon arose a cry for the scalps of the American pale-faces.
When this reached the ears of the foster-mother of Charles,
she had her tent removed to a place of greater security,
where it was surrounded and guarded by a number of Delaware
warriors; and early in the morning our party set
out, in a southern direction, toward the head-waters of the
Alleghany.
Gentle Moonlight, Brown Thrush, Charles, the young
Delaware chief, the Rev. David Jones, and Peter, formed
the party. Although a prisoner, Charles was permitted to
retain his arms, having given his word that he would not
attempt an escape for the space of seven days. This he
did the more readily, as he knew it would require that
length of time to convey Julia to the place in the West
designated by Queen Esther, and where he hoped to be
permitted to see her.
Although our party were granted the privilege of encamping
as often as they pleased on the route, to make long or
short marches as might suit the convenience of the sister
of the mother of Brandt, yet it was soon apparent that
they were followed and observed by seven of the guards of
Queen Esther, whose duty it was to prevent any communication
with the settlements of the white people. But they
were also preceded by seven Oneida warriors friendly to
the American cause. These warriors shot an abundance
of game, as they proceeded, for the use of the travellers.
The weather was fine, and the journey, although easy and
pleasant, (for the foster-mother of Charles was rich, and
had been lavish in expenditure when providing for the comfort
of her children,) was devoid of special incident until
the party crossed the dividing-line between New York and
Pennsylvania. Here they rested while canoes were sought
in which to descend the Alleghany River; and here they
were informed by a runner of the approach of Julia,
guarded by two Mingo chiefs, who could speak the English
language, and who had been charged, as the runner assured
Charles, to provide for all her wants, and to prevent her
from suffering the slightest bodily inconvenience on the
journey. Runners likewise came from Oswego, confirming
the rumour that Brandt had been made grand-sachem of the
Five Nations. It was also understood that the Indians
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would not go upon the war-path until the next spring; and
in the mean time they were to disperse in hunting-parties,
and secure a large supply of buffalo-meat.
The camp of the travellers, or captives, (for it appeared
they were still subject to the direction of Queen Esther,)
was situated in one of the wildest, and at the same time one
of the most lovely and romantic, spots in nature. It was
on a small delta of the Alleghany. The bright water
flowed at their feet on the south, and upon its surface the
golden beams of the sun danced in ever-varying splendour.
Behind, they were defended from the chilling winds of the
north by a high mountain, whose sides were clothed with
evergreens.
The camp was sheltered from the dews and the noonday
sun by a grove of sugar-maples, upon whose boughs,
ever and anon, rested myriads of wild-pigeons, pausing in
their migratory flight. Charles and Bartholomew Calvin
explored the mountains and streams in the vicinity, and
admired the bold features of the country. And it was
during one of these excursions with gun and angling-rod,
that Calvin confessed—what Charles had already suspected—
his passion for the sister of Brandt; and at the same time
expressed the sad conviction—which was evident to all—
that the Thrush was deeply, blindly in love with the Eagle.
Charles said every thing in his power to encourage and comfort
his friend, assuring him that, whatever might be his
affection for his foster-sister, or her attachment to him,
they could never be united.
And the poor Thrush and her aunt devoted themselves
to the generous task of providing for the comfort of the
captive maiden, whose arrival was now daily looked for.
She was the Antelope, loved by Charles, whom they loved,
and therefore they must love her too. The jealousy and
hatred that might have poisoned more civilized women
under similar circumstances found no place in their bosoms.
It is true, according to their code of morals, a chief
might have more than one wife; but they were not ignorant
that Charles, during the process of his education, had
adopted the Christian faith, and would be governed by the
laws of the race from which he was descended. And, likewise,
Mr. Jones had made some progress in their own conversion
to Christianity. Nevertheless, the devoted Thrush
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sang joyously as she prepared soft furs and fashioned robes
of fine cloth and hoods and moccasins for the Antelope.
It was while thus engaged in the deep solitude of the
silent grove that Charles once encountered her. He had
left Calvin and Peter fishing up the stream, near the camp
of the seven guards of Queen Esther.
“My sister,” said he, sitting down at her side on the
bleached trunk of a fallen tree, then checkered by the
straggling rays of the morning sun, “you will be kind to
your white sister, will you not?”
“My brother loves his white sister. I love my brother.”
“But will the Thrush always love the Antelope when
she sees her brother gather the sweetest flowers for her
nosegays?”
“Why not? Cannot my brother love us both? And
why should we not love one another?”
“I fear, my poor sister, that you are incapable of comprehending
me.”
“Oh, never fear. My brother Thayendanegea used to
say the White Eagle would forget his wild Thrush and
remain away. But it was not so. I did not believe it.
And did he not return? He used to tell her, also, that her
white brother would love his white Antelope and forsake
the Thrush. I did not believe that either. He was mistaken
in the one, and will be in the other.”
“But, my sister, suppose it had been as Brandt said?”
“The Thrush would still have sung. She would never
have blamed and hated the Eagle. But it would have been
a mournful song,—her own death-song. She would have
folded her wings and died.”
“Do you not know, my sister, that among the whites
it is unlawful for a man to love two maidens at the same
time?”
“Oh, yes! Mr. Jones has told me. That is among courts
and cities, and where the country is torn by the iron
ploughs. I do not doubt it. But we will not go thither.
The Antelope will remain with us in the warm sunlight,
near the edge of the bright, leaping waters at the foot of
the mountain. She will see the antlered buck followed by
two does, and the birds of fairest plumage attended by two
mates. She will forget the white people and their cruel
customs.”
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Charles despaired of convincing her of the superiority
of the customs of the white people; and, after a protracted
silence on his part, while the Indian maiden resumed her
song and plied her delicate fingers in the fabrication of an
exquisitely-ornamented pair of moccasins for Julia, he resumed:—
“But, my sister, hast thou not seen that thy brother's
friend, the young Delaware chief, was fascinated by the
song of the Thrush?”
`He would not wrong his friend. He would rather
perish.”
“I know it. But I would not have him die. I love him
too. We were brothers at the college.”
“And did he not hear thee speak of me? Did he not
know thy sister loved thee? Let him return to his people
in the East, or wed among the Delawares of the West. The
Brown Thrush knows her mate!”
“My sister,” continued Charles, “I say these things to
thee that thou mayest be prepared for the events of the
future. Once I loved thee only, and I love thee yet. But
I could not avoid loving the Antelope of my own race,
when she was so kind to me. What thy brother says is
the truth. A Christian is not allowed to have two wives.
And the Antelope is a Christian. Her husband must have
but one wife!”
“Be it so!” said the maiden, lifting her confiding eyes
to those of the young man. “We will not marry. We
will build no nests. The Antelope and the Thrush will
only love and charm the White Eagle. And when we go
to the great hunting-grounds together, Ha-wen-no-yu may
not have such bad laws as the white men.”
Charles, half amused and half vexed at the argument
and devotion of the child of nature, ceased the discussion.
He was startled, however, soon after, by the arrival of
Peter Shaver, bearing in his arms a very young bear-cub,
which kept up a piteous crying for its dam.
The Indian maiden leaped up in terror, and asked if the
dam had been killed; but Peter, not understanding her
language, only offered her the “pretty pet,” as he called
it. Then, in reply to the same question from Charles, he
said he had not seen the dam.
The Indian girl, upon learning that the dam had not
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been destroyed, gathered up her work and fled toward the
camp, not doubting the men would soon have to use their
rifles.
“Yonder she comes now!” said Peter, as he beheld the
infuriated animal plunging down the side of the mountain,
attracted by the cries of her offspring.
“Stop the cub's cries, Peter,” said Charles, “or else
you may feel the weight of the mother's claws before we
can kill her.”
“It wont stop!” said Peter. “And if I shoot it, its
mamma may catch me with an empty gun! I'll let it go!”
he continued, and instantly threw it down. But, instead
of running away, the cub followed Peter as he retreated
behind the fallen trunk. “Oh, what shall I do?” cried
he, now stricken with terror; for the creature would not
leave him, and the dam was coming with fearful strides.
“Climb a tree,” said Charles, amused at the efforts of
Peter to shake off the cub, “or else kill it.”
“Oh!” cried Peter, “he's biting my hand! Help me,
Mr. Cameron!” And as the poor man glared fearfully at
the old bear, now within fifty paces of him, his knees trembled
so violently he was unable to climb the tree he ran to.
But the Delaware youth, who had followed to see the result
of the experiment, and Charles, who did not relish a
closer proximity to the old bear, fired their rifles nearly at
the same moment, from opposite sides, and both with effect.
Nevertheless, she was not killed, though mortally wounded,
and rolled and ran together to the foot of the tree behind
which Peter Shaver was endeavouring to conceal himself;
and there she fell, but not before striking one blow at
Peter, which merely caught the skirt of his buckskin coat
as he fled round the trunk. He was held fast, however,
though the bear was dead, her teeth being desperately
sunk in a root of the tree, upon which Peter's cap had
fallen. Peter continued to make violent struggles to extricate
himself, and still called lustily for help.
“Why don't you turn and fight, Peter?” asked Charles,
advancing carelessly.
“Shoot, Popcorn!” said Calvin.
“Oh! he'll tear me all to pieces! I've lost my gun!”
cried Peter, who had dropped his rifle when the bear sprang
toward him.
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“Take your tomahawk or knife,” continued Charles,
seeing the bear was quite dead. One arm clasped her cub,
while the other nailed Peter's hunting-shirt to the tree.
“I can't! I tremble so!” said Peter; “kill him, if you
please!”
“No,” said Charles; “you must distinguish yourself before
you can become a great Indian. If we were to dispatch
the bear, the Indians would call you a woman.”
“Dad burn the Indians and the women,” cried Peter,
“when a savage bear has hold of my shirt-tail! Get out
of the way, if you won't help me!” and, extricating himself
by a violent effort, he sank his tomahawk in Bruin's
head.
“That finished her!” said Calvin.
“You have conquered,” said Charles.
“You dealt such a deadly blow,” continued Calvin,
“that she never moved afterward.”
Just then Peter's ass, which was browsing near, began
to bray.
“Your steed, even, is cheering you, Peter. Well done,
great Popcorn!” added Charles.
“Gentlemen,” said Peter, who soon began to suspect
they were quizzing him, of all offences the most unpardonable,
“I guess you're not in earnest, for I believe the bear
was dead before I struck her. But I don't like to be made
sport of. If you doubt my courage, just strip and let us
fight it out!”
But this was not agreed to. Boxing was not one of
their accomplishments; and they declined the honour, assuring
Peter they did not doubt his superiority in the mode
of combat proposed.
The braying of the ass was caused by the smell of the
blood of the bear. Charles had been informed by the Indian
who had made the exchange with Peter, that it was
his startling braying, whenever he got the scent of blood,
which rendered it necessary to part with him.
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CHAPTER X.
ENCAMPMENT ON THE ALLEGHANY—ARRIVAL OF JULIA—
THE WARWHOOP—QUEEN ESTHER.
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At the first wail of the whippoorwill perched on the
trunk of the fallen tree where the Indian maiden sang in
the daytime, and just when the last glimmer of twilight
was succeeded by the silvery rays of the rising moon, our
temporary sojourners at the foot of the mountain were
startled by the hailing halloo of an Indian, which they immediately
understood to be the announcement of the approach
of Julia, the captive maiden.
The only direction by which horses could approach the
small area in the midst of which stood the encampment
was by following the course of the river, along the right
bank of which was an old Indian path. Up this path
Charles and the Indian maiden ran, hand-in-hand, to meet
the captive; and when they turned an acute point of one
of the ridges, round which wound the path, meandering
with the stream, they beheld the object of their solicitude.
Rushing forward, Charles clasped his affianced in his arms,
and, when relinquished by him, she was as heartily embraced
by the Indian maiden.
Silence prevailed for many moments, during which their
tears could not be restrained. But their throbbing hearts
were relieved.
“Oh, Julia,” said Charles, “I did not think, when we
parted, we should meet again in such a place as this! I,
too, am a prisoner. They detained me in hopes I would
unite with them in the war against the Colonists. And they
brought thee hither to remove one of the motives I might
have to escape. I fear you have suffered very much!”
“Indeed, I have not!” replied Julia, with a slight smile
and a blush. “It has been like a dream—a repetition in
my slumbers of some of the fireside stories I have listened
to of long winter evenings. The two chiefs who captured
me could speak our language very well, and provided every
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convenience for me in their power. Their first care was to
assure me I should sustain no injury; their next, that I
should meet with thee. After that, all was pleasing novelty
and romantic adventure.”
“Her voice is like the warbling of the robin or the
sound of dancing waters,” said the Indian girl; and Charles
rendered it into English.
“How beautiful!” said Julia, gazing at the face of the
child of the forest.
“Let us now hasten to the tent of my Indian mother,”
said Charles, leading the way. “But who is that?” he
continued, seeing a white man following, the two chiefs
having halted with Queen Esther's guard.
“That is our gardener, Paddy Pence,” said Julia. “You
may come now, Paddy,” she continued.
Paddy ran forward and prostrated himself before Charles,
whom he had not recognised; for Julia, with maiden modesty,
not wishing him to hear that which might be uttered
on her meeting with her lover, had directed him to remain
some distance behind.
“Oh, Misther Indian chafe,” cried he, “if you have kilt
Mr. Charles, do plase send me and Miss Julia back to the
Jenny Jump, and Mr. Schooley will pay you a thousand
pounds; I know he will, for he said he would!”
“When did he say that, Paddy?” asked Julia.
“I mane I know he would naturally say sich a thing
afther he found out we had both been captivated!”
“Paddy!” said Charles.
“You know me name, Misther Indian; and I hope you
don't mane to take the sculp of a friend.”
“Paddy, don't you know me?”
“Are you one of the great and noble and ginerous chafes
who used to ate and smoke at Misther Schooley's table? I
thought I knew yer voice. And do you know I always
thought you the handsomest one of them all?”
“Be done, now, Paddy; none of your nonsense, or by
the patron saint of all the Paddies of ould Ireland—”
“Wha! I know you now, Mr. Charles, by your poor
brogue!” cried Paddy, leaping up. “And, as sure as the
moon is shining over us, I had forgotten your hunting-shirt,
and leggins, and breech-clout, on the day you left
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us. And here I've been mistaking you for one of them
blackguard savages!”
“Paddy,” said Julia, as they moved slowly toward the
fire at the hut, “you must not abuse the Indians. If
Charles is not one, this lady is.”
“I beg yer pardon, miss,” said he, addressing the
Thrush; “it was only an Irish slape o' the tongue.”
After interpreting the speech, Charles informed Paddy
that the Indian lady did not understand English.
“Then, be the powers,” said Paddy, “she wouldn't be
likely to sculp me for me Irish.”
They were met at the threshhold of the encampment by
the foster-mother of Charles, who tenderly folded Julia in
her arms, and placed her on the seat of furs which had
been provided for her. She gazed long in admiration of
the features and form of the white maiden; and then, turning
to Charles, said she was very lovely, but that he must
not permit her to estrange him from his forest sister.
Every delicacy the camp afforded was produced for the
captives; and Paddy had just a sufficient recollection of his
position and his duty to forbear the gratification of his
ravenous appetite until his mistress bade him eat.
The Rev. Mr. Jones, who had been making the woods
vocal with his spiritual songs, came in and shared the
smiles of Julia. Calvin, too, paid his devoirs in his usual
melancholy way
“Murther!” said Paddy, at the end of his repast, when,
lifting up his eyes, he saw, standing before him, a tomahawk
in one hand and a scalping-knife in the other, the
redoubtable rotundity of the chief of the Capitanasses,—
Popcorn.
“I hope you couldn't be so cruel, Mr. Indian, as to
sthrike a man wid a full stomach, and when he's in sich a
good humour that he wouldn't bate the worst inemy in the
world.”
“Paddy!” said Peter Shaver, hardly able to maintain
his composure, although still conscious of the presence of
the dark blotches painted on his face by the Minisink
artist.
“Paddy!” iterated the gardener. “The divil take me
if me name isn't pat in the mouths of all the black—
Misther Charles, can this chafe understand English?”
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“Perfectly; and Irish too,” said Charles.
“I mane,” continued Paddy, “in the mouths of all the
picturesquely-painted chafes of the magnificent natural
forests and mossy strames and gliding rocks.”
“Paddy Pence,” continued Peter, approaching a step
nearer, “don't you know me?”
“No doubt of it, yer noble honour; but I can't jist call
yer name at prisent, though it was on the ind of me tongue
a minute since. You came to Misther Schooley's wid the
rest of the tall majestic chafes and—”
“Paddy Pence,” said the other, “you are the first man
who ever called Peter Shaver tall and majestic, and I thank
you for it.”
“Peter Shaver? What! Peter Shaver, our little potbellied
overseer? It is! Och, forgive me, St. Pater! Why,
you nasty little blackguard, to come wid your disguises
and impose yerself on gintlemen as a natural chafe of these
eternal wildernesses! Begone, ye spalpeen, and larn
betther manners!”
“Come! Foller me, and I'll teach you better manners,
you Irish cur, you!” said Peter, rolling up his sleeves, and
stepping out under the spreading maples.
“I won't fight ye,” said Paddy, “wid sich savage instruments
as them,” gazing at the tomahawk and knife.
“But find a good hickory cudgel, and I'll soon paint yer
bald head the original colour of yer hair.”
Charles and Mr. Jones interposed, and after a few words
of peace and explanation the two old acquaintances became
reconciled, and sat by the fire the remainder of the evening
relating their marvellous adventures.
And Julia, declaring she felt no fatigue, as her progress
through the wilderness had been by easy though tortuous
marches, readily consented to narrate the manner of her
capture.
“Every afternoon,” said she, “since the forest-leaves
have been variegated by the early frosts, it has been my
habit to ride over the grounds we used to visit together. It
was not considered prudent to walk alone in the paths, for
a number of large rattlesnakes had been seen by Mr. Green
every year at that season, seeking, as he says, their dens
in the rocks where they pass the winter. Nor would my
guardian permit me to go unattended. Richard, you know,
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could not spare the time to accompany me. And so Paddy,
armed with the French fowling-piece given to Mr. Schooley
by Governor Franklin, followed my steps, and kept my
erratic person in view, as much as I saw proper to permit
him. But my chief reliance was on Solo, my poor, faithful
companion.
“It was upon the gentle slope where Richard, you know,
had girdled the noble forest-trees for the purpose of enclosing
another field, that I paused and listened to the dirgelike
sound of the breeze as it murmured through the boughs
of the stricken oaks. And I sang a mournful ditty,—the
requiem you composed for the night of the conflagration
of the grove devoted to destruction by the civilized Vandals.
Leaning on my elbow,—no doubt the picture of dejection,—
and my sympathetic palfrey as motionless as a
monument, I was startled by the sudden cry of poor Solo;
and, turning, I saw him rolling in agony on the ground,
transfixed by an arrow which had passed through the points
of his shoulders. Paddy came running toward me with
great swiftness, but when he saw the arrow he fired his
gun at random, and, without pausing to recharge it, threw
it down and took to his heels. But he was instantly confronted
in the path by one of the Mingo chiefs, who laughed
very heartily at his panic-stricken face. He seized him
and bound his hands.
“The other chief arose from the tall grass near my
horse, and, taking the reins in his hand, assured me, in very
good English, that it was not their intention to injure either
of us, although we must submit to be their prisoners and
promise not to utter any cries. He said he was employed
to convey me to the West, where I would meet the White
Eagle. That assurance, Charles, bereft me of half my
terrors. And yet a painful thought flashed through my
mind—”
That I had, perhaps, resolved to become an Indian
again, and might be violently tearing thee away from thy
home,” said Charles, smiling.
“Something of that nature, I admit,” said Julia; “but it
flitted away like the gleam of the lightning, and the Mingo
assured me you knew nothing of his proceeding. The object
of his employer was to prevent you from returning and
bearing arms against your red brethren. Then I signified
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my readiness to accompany them, if they would also take
my poor wounded Solo. This they could not agree to.
But they assured me his wound would not prove fatal,
though it had been their intention to kill him. They said
the report of Paddy's gun would soon attract the people
thither, and the dog would be taken care of. And so they
hastened us away to the old sycamore, where their horses
were concealed. Paddy was made to get up behind one of
the chiefs, and then we plunged into hidden paths, whose
existence I had no knowledge of before, and rode, I suppose,
many miles without halting. They spread a shelter
toward morning in a deep valley, and wrapped me in furs,
so that neither the chill of the night-wind nor the dew of
the leaves could reach me. I could not eat the food they
offered; but I recollect seeing Paddy's jaws in motion. I
fell asleep and dreamed of thee, Charles, and the Indian
maiden, and a scene like this.
“When daylight appeared, we resumed the journey.
Supposing they might be pursued, our captors frequently
deviated from the usual paths, for the purpose of misleading
those who might attempt to follow us.
“After the second day, the chiefs were less apprehensive
of being overtaken. They now suffered poor Paddy to
go unbound, but warned him not to attempt an escape.
This he pledged himself not to do, assuring them, upon his
honour, that, if liberated, he would not know which course
to take, and would starve in the woods. In short, to their
infinite amusement, he begged them not to leave him behind.
They killed various birds and other tender game
for me; and, my appetite returning, I could partake of
them with a good relish.
“In this manner, the weather being very beautiful all
the time, we completed the journey. Paddy and I were
delivered into the hands of the seven warriors—Senecas, I
think—encamped a few miles from this place up the stream.
One of their party guided us hither, and uttered the halloo
which apprised you of our approach. He then vanished,
and I saw him no more.”
When Julia concluded her recital, Paddy, who had been
listening to Peter, was seen to spring upright.
“And you mane to tell me that that is the prant of the
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bear's nails on yer leather shirt?” cried he, when Popcorn
recounted his recent adventure.
“I do, Paddy, and hang me if I can't prove it!”
“And so you must be afther having a vulgar set-to at
boxing wid the filthy crature, instead of using a shelalah!
I'm astonished at yer taste!”
“But I killed him with my tomahawk, Paddy,” added
Peter, in a low tone, “and he never hurt a hair of my
head.”
“A precious small dale ye have left at all! If it wasn't
for the shaving of the hair, and painting of wan's countenance
in that blackguard fashion, I would have no objections
to be an Indian meself for the trifle of a week or
two. But what do they lave that plume of a tuft on the
top o' yer head for?”
“That's the scalp-lock, Paddy.”
“The sculp-lock! Divil the bit shall they have to sculp
me by! I'll have ivery blade taken off the top o' my
head! I'll be as bald as a shaven monk to morrow morning,
if there's a razor to be had! They shall find no sculp-lock
on Paddy's head! And now, what in nature is that
horrid roar I hear?”
“That's my—my horse, Paddy,” said Peter, hesitating,
and recognising the sound.
“And I'd like to saa that same horse o' yours. I hope
you don't fade him in the ear.”
“In the ear?”
“Yes; hasn't he ears?”
“Oh, very large ones. But I don't know what he can
be smelling now. Didn't you hear something?”
Shouts and the reports of guns were indeed heard.
Charles and Calvin sprang up and listened attentively.
“McSwine!” said Charles. “It is the voice of McSwine!
Julia, your captors were pursued, and have been overtaken.
My father permitted McSwine to go upon the trail, and he
is an experienced woodsman. Listen! Did you not hear
that? The Senecas cry, Oonah! It is for us to fly. We
will not move! My mother, let Queen Esther's guards
hide from the fatal aim of McSwine. He is our friend,
and will deliver us. We will remain!”
“My son,” said the Gentle Moonlight, “there are more
than a hundred Seneca warriors encamped behind us, and
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others are on the march. They have been sent to kill
buffalo, and merely await our motions, for they have been
charged to see that no one escapes before we reach Chilicothe.
Such was the speech of a runner who passed this
morning.”
“Queen Esther,” said Calvin, “cannot have given orders
to restrain my actions. I will go to the Oneidas, and then
to the faithful band of Delawares remaining in their wigwams.
I will return with as many as will accompany me,
and we will defend the sister of Brandt's mother, and his
own sister.”
Calvin started away, and was soon lost to sight in the
intricacies of the woods. Meantime an occasional shot was
heard, followed by the yells of the savages, which seemed
to grow fainter in the distance.
Charles went forth alone in the direction from which the
yells at first proceeded, and sounded a horn his father had
given him. It was replied to immediately by McSwine,
who was standing but a few hundred paces distant. The
next moment the rescuing party advanced, and were soon
greeted with the animated congratulations of Charles.
“Hoot, mon! Our blude's up! Where's the lassie?”
said McSwine.
“Safe, safe!” cried Charles. “She is yonder, where the
fire is glimmering, in the camp of my foster-mother. And
she is safe for the night. The Senecas, though wolves by
day, do not often prowl in the night. Come in and eat.
And you are here, Will?” he continued, heartily welcoming
Van Wiggens, and patting the head of his frisky,
stump-tailed dog.
“Yes, tam dem!” said he. “Dey steal te goot and te
peautiful Miss Lane, and leave te scolding Mrs. Wan
Viggens!”
Charles cordially grasped the hands of the rest of the
party—some five or six in all—who had accompanied
McSwine.
But the Indians knew McSwine's Scotch accent, and
recollected his herculean frame, which, years before, had
been terribly familiar. Hence their flight before they
knew exactly the numerical strength of the rescuers.
Charles led his friends into the tent of his Indian
mother, where Julia gave utterance to the thanks she felt
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for the pursuit, and where the Indian maiden and her aunt
had already prepared for them a plentiful repast.
They ate like half-starved wolves, having fasted for
several days. And, as they masticated the bear, Peter
Shaver was heard to say he had killed him.
“Tam! Who's dat tere?” cried Van Wiggens, pointing
at the chief of the Capitanasses.
“I'm Peter Shaver, Will,” said he. “Don't you know
me?”
“Peter Shaver? Warn't he drownded at te Gap?
Dey saw a pig fat round ting floating town te river,
which some said was a swelt hog, and some said it vas like
Peter Shaver. Most of us dought it vas Peter, and it
vas more like him tan you.”
“Bill Van Wiggens,” said Peter, quivering with anger,
“you once felt Peter Shaver's fist on your fat paunch. If
you'll step out, you may feel it again, and then you'll know
him!”
“Tat's his voice, I'll swear to it!” said Van Wiggens.
“I pelieve you now, Peter. You needn't prove it any
more. And you look more like a man as an Indian tan
you did before. Peter,” he continued, in a half whisper,
“tam if I don't turn Indian myself! Mrs. Wan Viggens
will be afraid of me den!”
Peter Shaver, Paddy Pence, and Will Van Wiggens,
surrounded by the three or four clansmen of the Cameron
who had followed McSwine, formed a separate group some
paces apart, and entertained each other with the recital of
their exploits.
“Now, Hugh,” said Charles, when the last bone had
been picked, “you will tell me the news of the valley, and
first of my father.”
“Well, mon, well. The laird was never sick in his life,
since we carried him over the hills of Scotland, his breast
and shoulders shot to pieces by the English cannon. He
reads and studies in his castle, watching for his bonny
laddie's return, but not impatiently. He waits the Lord's
time, who holds us all in the hollow of his hand.”
“God bless my good father!” said Charles; and McSwine
uttered a hearty Amen.
The faithful Scot informed Charles that the capture of
Julia had produced great consternation in the
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neighbourhood, and for several days after the occurrence it seemed
doubtful whether a party could be formed to go in pursuit.
Mr. Schooley, almost distracted, did nothing but write letters
to all the chiefs and sachems he had ever known; but
there were no messengers to deliver them. Richard rode
from one house to another, offering insignificant pecuniary
rewards for the rescue and restitution of the lady. His
tears flowed incessantly, but he was religiously averse to
bearing arms himself. Yet he ran and brought the
French gun that had been dropped by Paddy, and, putting
it in the hands of Van Wiggens, proposed supplying the
whole party with horses and ammunition.”
“Poor Solo!” cried Julia, at this point. “Tell me, good
Hugh: what was my poor dog's condition when you left?
Say no more of Richard, or his honest scruples.”
McSwine informed her that he had himself withdrawn
the arrow, and that the faithful animal could use his legs
immediately, for he evinced his gratitude by leaping up
with his paws against his breast; and, when they started in
the pursuit, Solo had to be locked up, else he would have
followed them, and might have died on the way.
“Let us pray!” said Mr. Jones, suddenly returning from
one of his solitary nocturnal rambles, during which he had
been forgotten by the rest of the party. “I have heard
the signals of the wolves of Queen Esther. They are rallying
in the mountains, and after they have buried their
dead they will come upon us with howls and gnashing
teeth.”
“You've got my French gun, Mr. Van Wiggens,” said
Paddy, “and I can't fight.”
“You shall have one of my pistols, Paddy,” said
Charles.
“And one of mine,” said Mr. Jones. “My voice will
intimidate them more than my arms. But, alas! blood has
been spilled. I heard their death-halloo.”
“True, mon!” said Hugh, “we fired bock at 'em. And
when Hugh McSwine fires his rifle at mortal mon he becomes
immortal.”
“Let us pray, then!” repeated David Jones, falling down
on his knees. The whole party, excepting the Presbyterians,
followed his example; the Indian maiden and her
aunt with as little hesitation as the rest. And the Indians,
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unlike many of the civilized Christians, never experience
any feeling of shame or degradation in bowing before the
Great Spirit in humble adoration. They care not who sees
them worship the Creator, any more than to be seen admiring
a beautiful flower, or when charmed by a sublime
spectacle of natural scenery.
The eccentric Baptist uttered a long petition to the
Supreme Ruler. He prayed that the party then kneeling
in the solitude of the wilderness might be delivered from
their enemies; and, next, that the Sons of Liberty, led into
battle by George Washington, might triumph over the
legions of the tyrant.
Then he admonished his hearers that to merit the aid
of their Maker it was indispensable that they should be
eager to help themselves, which was the best proof of their
worthiness to be assisted.
And after this, Mr. Jones, by the permission of the
party, retired a few paces apart, and sang one of the martial
psalms of David, in which all the honour of victory was
ascribed to the Lord. And as the savage orgies of the
Senecas in the distant hills could be distinctly heard, constantly
borne on the gentle night-breezes, the mighty sound
of Mr. Jones's voice must have penetrated the ears of the
enemy.
After their defeat, the guard of Senecas bore their dead—
two of their number having fallen—to a place of security,
and buried them with all the ceremonies usual on
such occasions. They then sent a runner to the large
hunting-party of their nation encamped in the vicinity.
Just before the messenger reached the encampment, Queen
Esther arrived; and when the runner delivered his message,
and made known the fact that two of the guard had
fallen, an intense excitement ensued. Queen Esther, who
had been accompanied by several of the principal chiefs
recently returned from Oswego, immediately summoned a
council of warriors, at which it was resolved to surround
the camp on the Alleghany at early dawn and demand the
delivery of the offending whites into their hands. This
project had the hearty approval of the Queen, and she anticipated
with delight the torture she meant to inflict on
her captives.
But Bartholomew Calvin had not been idle. He
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collected the party of Delawares who still acknowledged his
authority, and also a number of Cherokees from the South,
who were passing toward the neutral hunting-grounds beyond
the Ohio. A small band of Shawnees, being assured
they had no cause of complaint against the Colonists for
the murder of Cornstalk at Fort Point Pleasant, as that
deed bad been done by the agents of Lord Dunmore, likewise
consented to join him, but with no promise to make
war against the Senecas. These, together with the seven
Oneidas granted as a special protection to Gentle Moonlight
and Brown Thrush, numbered altogether, including
the party at the camp, some seventy men; and, apprehending
an early assault, Calvin lost no time in leading his succours
to the scene of action. They arrived late in the night,
and, to avoid disturbing the slumber of our party, sought a
few hours' repose under shelter of the surrounding trees.
As they had foreseen, the warwhoop of the Senecas rang
down the valley of the Alleghany at early twilight. Charles,
and Calvin, and Hugh, followed by the rescuing party of
Scots, rushed at once to the narrow pass above, which, if
successfully defended, closed the principal avenue of access
to the encampment; for it was defended in other places by
almost precipitous cliffs.
The Indians who had followed Calvin still lay concealed,
in obedience to his instructions.
At the pass Queen Esther herself came forward and demanded
the delivery of the party who had fired on her
guard. This request was refused by Charles, because the
guard had been the first to fire, and because the whites
were his friends, and were pursuing the Indians who had
captured the unoffending maiden.
“You see I have the means of compelling obedience,”
said Esther, pointing to the long array of painted warriors
behind.
“I see you have many brave men,” said Charles, “but
we have warriors quite as bold to meet them.”
“But not so many, On-yit-hah,” (bird of the strong wing.)
“And why should the White Eagle defend the accursed pale-faces?
Ay, he is a pale-face, too! And am not I a pale-face?
But we have dwelt among the sons of the forest, to
whom the great Ha-wen-no-yu gave the whole of the
woods and the prairies. America's rivers, mines, minerals,
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fishings, hawkings, huntings, and fowlings,—as enumerated
in the impudent grant of James, Duke of York, to Berkeley,
Baron of Stratton,—and all other royalties, profits,
commodities, and hereditaments, have ever belonged, and
ever should in justice belong, to the noble Indians, who
have spared and adopted us. You and I are bound in
honour to be the foes of their foes, the friends of their
friends. Speak, On yit-hah!”
“Queen Esther, it is too late to reverse the doom of the
Indians. They now stand but as the trunks of the trees of
the forest, while the pale-faces are as innumerable as the
leaves or the stars of heaven. The leaves may fall; they
return again in the spring; but the oak, once uprooted or
felled, rises no more. It is in vain to speak of exterminating
the white race on these shores. And whether King
George succeeds in subjugating the people, or the people
in throwing off their allegiance, the result will be the same
to the doomed Indian. I will weep with you and mourn
their sad destiny; but it would be worse than useless to
contend for them in battle, and criminal to engage them on
either side in the strife between the Colonies and the crown.
Let us unite in preserving them from the danger on every
hand, and thus we may contribute to prolong their existence.”
“Enough, ungrateful boy! But you and I must perish
with the doomed Indian! Know you not it is better to die
nobly and quickly amid the smoke and slaughter of battle,
than to ignominiously drag out a miserable existence and
finally sink into contempt? Better that you, and the white
maiden, and your Indian mother, and Thayendanegea's infatuated
sister, should all perish, than breed divisions among
the warriors of the scattered nations. And you, degenerate
son of the Lenni Lenappé,” she continued, addressing Calvin,
“why dost thou not sigh at the feet of some high-born
white damsel?”
“Queen Esther!” replied the enraged youth, “whoever
accepts me for a husband must be virtuous and contented
with her lot. And such was not the case with thee.”
“Fool! coward! wretch!” cried the exasperated old
hag. “I will have you a prisoner and burn you at the
stake!”
“Not so fast, madam, if you please!” said Calvin.
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“There are warriors of my nation now crouching within
call. Let your wolves but once more sound the warwhoop,
and thou shalt be my prisoner!”
“Ha! ha! ha! The poor silly youth! Boasting of his
Delawares when there are not two hundred of them capable
of bearing arms if they were all collected from the four
quarters of the earth!”
“We have Oneidas, Cherokees, and Shawnees in our
camp,” said Charles.
“Not seventy, all told, On-yit-hah. I learned at the
council the numbers and probable localities of every nation.
But Indians should not shed each other's blood. We came
hither to fight the white men who slew our warriors. Will
you give them up?”
“Not while there is an arm among us strong enough to
raise a tomahawk!”
Queen Esther, seeing the pass could be defended by the
small party already posted in the commanding positions,
drew back, announcing her purpose to consult her chiefs
once more before giving the signal for the attack.
And while Charles awaited the result of the consultation,
Paddy Pence came running toward him, nearly out of
breath, and very pale.
“Mr. Charles! Mr. Charles!” said he, “there's Indians
in the bushes under the trays. I stepped aside, niver
draming of sich a thing, and when I cast me eyes downward,
sure enough I beheld an Indian fornents me toes.
And he was winking and making mouths, and screwing
about in his slape! I turned as soon as I could convaniently,
and tried to stale softly away. But, as St. Pater's
my witness, the logs I thought I was stipping over ivery-where
were slaping Indians! And I sat down on one, and
he drew up his fut and struck me behind such a powerful
blow that me head, before I could stop it, went against a
tree siven yards away.”
“Nonsense! Don't trouble me now with your idle
dreams,” said Charles, making an effort to assume a severe
gravity.
“Drames! Och, murther! An' I hope the savage will
think it a drame when he wakes up! Och, Paddy Pence,
Paddy Pence! It's coming to be the very thing they said
would happen to ye in the wild country of America!”
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Leaving the Highlanders under McSwine posted in positions
to command the pass, Charles, who had been beckoned
away by his foster-mother, slowly walked toward the tent.
She lifted the curtain of dressed skins, and revealed a
spectacle that caused the young man's bosom to swell with
tender emotions. At the extremity of the pavilion he beheld
Julia partly habited in the Indian costume, profusely
and richly ornamented. At her feet sat the Indian maiden,
her head reclining on the captive's knee and her lustrous
eyes fixed in admiration on her lovely face.
“The Brown Thrush is very kind to her pale sister,”
said Charles, advancing in obedience to the desire of his
foster-mother.
“Oh, yes!” said Julia, smiling sadly. “She has been
kind and loving. And what return can I make for such
affection? To carry her into the habitations of our people
would be to deprive her of happiness.”
“Kacha Manito dwells in the air,” said the Indian
maiden, who had learned many English words. “He likes
trees, flowers, rocks, and streams. He would not stay in
strong houses.”
“And I could not dwell in tents,” said Julia.
“Unless detained as a prisoner,” said Charles.
“Oh, then there would be no remedy,” said she.
“Would the Antelope escape?” asked the Thrush. “If
so, she shall return to her people; and, if she desires her
Indian sister to go with her, she will do so. And then the
White Eagle will put down his tomahawk and rifle, and no
one will watch to take away his life. His sisters would be
very happy.”
“But the Thrush would droop and die if taken from her
native woods,” said Julia.
“Then she would go to the Spirit-land and sing until
her white sister and the White Eagle came. In that hunting-ground
there are no rains to wet, no frosts to chill us.
The good Manito makes all happy. No more dying, no
more pain here,” she added, placing her hand on her breast.
“And hast thou any pain there?” asked Julia.
“Oh, yes! The Malcha Manito keeps saying I must
kill the Antelope, or On-yit-hah (bird of the strong wing)
will fly away and return no more. But the Good Spirit
whispers that when the Antelope dies the White Eagle will
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fold his wings on some high rock and close his eyes. I
could not bear to see him so.”
After a long silence, during which both Charles and Julia
scanned with amazement the ingenuous features of the Indian
girl, the latter asked the Thrush if she had not said
she loved her white sister, and if she could really be induced
to take her life if assured it would not grieve the White
Eagle.
The Indian maiden said the Thrush never sang falsely.
She did love her white sister dearly. She loved her before
she ever saw her face, from the description her brother
(Brandt) had given, and because the White Eagle loved
her. But she said it would not be an unfriendly act to
send her sister to the eternal flowers and fruits of the
Spirit-land. She would be very happy there, and the
Thrush would be very happy here with the White Eagle.
Charles and Julia only gazed in astonishment, mingled
with painful forebodings. And the Indian maiden continued
substantially as follows:—
“But her white brother might mourn, and never smile
again. Then his forest-sister would do nothing but shed
tears. No; she would not kill her sister. Her word was
spoken. But her white sister might kill her. She would
dig up a root for the Antelope to give her. She would
take it from her snow-white hand and swallow it. She
would be happy in the Spirit-land, and her pale-face sister
would be happy with the White Eagle in the house of his
white-haired father.”
“No!” said Charles, with emphasis. “The White Eagle
would be as miserable if his red sister died as he would to
lose his Antelope. Neither must die. But if one of them
were to kill the other, On-yit-hah would dart up into the
clouds and never alight upon the earth again. His sisters
must live and love each other.”
The Indian girl, smiling through her tears, wound her
arms round the form of Julia, and kissed her repeatedly.
Charles, being informed by his Indian mother that a
messenger from Queen Esther awaited him at the pass,
hastened in that direction.
Julia's tears were wiped away by the long silken hair of
the forest-maiden, and they ate together the delicious viands
placed before them by the Gentle Moonlight.
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CHAPTER XI.
THE COMPACT—PADDY AND THE SOW—ARRIVAL AT CHILLICOTHE—
THE BAPTISM OF BOONE AND ST. TAMMANY, ETC.—
RESOLUTION TO ESCAPE.
[figure description] Page 138.[end figure description]
When Charles approached the pass where the messenger
from the Senecas awaited him, Hugh McSwine whispered
to him, as he passed,—
“Be watchful, my laddie. Dinna' trust him further than
you can see; for it's Girty!”
“Girty!” said Van Wiggens, hearing the name. “He's
a tam rascal.”
“I know him well,” said Charles. “Never fear; but
keep your rifles ready.”
He then walked boldly forward, and accepted the hand
which Girty offered him.
“I suppose, Mr. Girty,” said Charles, “you are prepared
to announce the decision of Esther's council.”
Girty hesitated a moment as if disconcerted. He had
arrived upon the ground after the withdrawal of the Queen
from the pass, and, as he was carefully painted and costumed
like an Indian, it had been his wish to remain unrecognised.
“The eye of the White Eagle is clear,” said Girty, not
denying his identity; “and no doubt his wisdom has foreseen
the result of the deliberations of the warriors.”
“We have at least conjectured what might be the decision
of our enemies,” said Charles, “and we are prepared
for any contingency.”
“Be assured you are not prepared for battle,” said Girty.
“Five hundred Seneca warriors have arrived since daybreak.”
“The few we have to oppose them,” said Charles, “are
prepared to die in defence of the white maiden and those
who pursued her captors. We have warriors of several
tribes; yours are all Senecas. We have Delawares, Oneidas,
Cherokees, and Shawnees; and, if you attack us, you
must abide the consequences. An eternal enmity will
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ensue between these nations and the Senecas. And the Indian
maiden is the sister of Brandt, and her foster-mother
his aunt. Queen Esther durst not attack us!”
“It is true!” said Girty, admiring the bold confidence
of the young man.
“Then what can you do?” demanded Charles.
“We will tell the Shawnees that the garrison at Point
Pleasant, although subject to the orders of Lord Dunmore,
when Cornstalk and his son were murdered, now refuse to
obey him, and that the men who performed the butchery
are among the rebels. And they will leave your camp.”
The facts, as stated by Girty, were undeniable, and
Charles did not attempt to controvert them.
“Then what song,” he asked, “has Girty to charm the
ears of the Cherokees?”
“Did they not sell their lands in Kentucky to a North
Carolina company, and has not Virginia decided that the
title of the North Carolinians is invalid, because Kentucky
lay within her limits?”
“Then I suppose there was no sale,” replied Charles,
“if the company had no right to buy.”
“But,” said Girty, with a malicious smile, “Virginia
says the Cherokees had a right to sell, and, as they have
relinquished their title, she becomes the owner, and is preparing
to take possession. This will charm the ears of the
Cherokees.”
Charles had not heard of these transactions, and they
might be as Girty said; and, if so, the hostility of the
Southern Indians would certainly follow.
“Then there are the Delawares and the Oneidas,” said
Charles.
“Among the Delawares whose voice is strongest?—the
Garden Terrapin, Bartholomew Calvin, or the Great Mingo
chief, Logan, whose family were slaughtered by the bloody
Cresap? And the Oneidas will follow the rest. Time will
array them all against the Colonies.”
“I did not come hither, Girty,” said Charles, “to listen
to your speeches. Let us act. Shall we fight, or part in
peace?”
“This is the decision, my young friend, as I would call
thee:—The white maiden, and the party that pursued her
captors, to return to their homes in Jersey, if you will
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remain and wed the Brown Thrush, and swear never to
lift hand or voice against the Indians; or—”
“Let me hear the alternative!” said Charles, seeing
Girty hesitated; “for that will be the sentence.”
“Or else,” said Girty, his penetrating eye fixed upon
the countenance of the young man, “the whole party—
rescuers and maiden, the recreant Calvin and yourself,
Gentle Moonlight and the Thrush—must depart immediately
for Chillicothe and await the determination of a
grand council.”
“Will Thayendanegea be there?” asked Charles.
“He will.”
“And Red Jacket?”
“He will.”
“Then we will go to Chillicothe. Let the chiefs meet
around the council-fire which has been burning for ages,
and I will speak to them. But I warn you, Girty, not to
molest us as we descend the river!”
“You are not to descend the Ohio. The Queen says
you might escape into Virginia. Your course will be southwest
until you strike the head-waters of the Scioto, down
which you can float in canoes to Chillicothe. The Seneca
warriors will follow in your rear; the rest of the Five
Nations will proceed along the southern shore of Lake Erie,
on your right, while the Tuscarawas will be on your left.”
`I care not!” said Charles, “so they do not molest us.
My word is passed to meet you at Chillicothe.”
“The Queen has no confidence in the big Scotchman
who has slain so many of her subjects. She recollects him
well when he fought on the Conococheague.”
“Then let her beware of him, for I know not whether
he will be a party to the compact. If not, you may prevent
his escape if you can. And I must also consult the
white maiden before the agreement is ratified. If she will
not go—”
“She will go!” exclaimed Julia herself, who had besought
the Indian girl to conduct her to the scene of conference,
and had been led noiselessly round the cliff to
where Charles and Girty stood. “Yes, she will go with
you to the grand council-fire at Chillicothe, and she will
not depart from the wilderness until all her white friends
may accompany her.”
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Charles signified his approbation by a proud smile. He
knew not whether Julia had heard the first proposition;
but, if she had, it was quite apparent she would not accept
her enfranchisement on the terms proposed.
The announcement in camp that they were in effect the
prisoners of Queen Esther was variously received, and
perhaps by none with more secret satisfaction than poor
Van Wiggens. Even his little mongrel cur, that had accompanied
him, seemed to wag his blunt tail in delight; for
he had generally received as many blows from Mrs. Van
Wiggens's broomstick as his master got wounds from her
tongue.
The aunt and sister of Brandt, now the Great Sachem
of the Five Nations, did not doubt that his influence would
be exerted in behalf of themselves and their friends. And
David Jones thought he would have an excellent opportunity
of being heard by the representatives of all the tribes.
But neither he nor Charles had correctly estimated the
powers of Girty, McKee, and Elliot, who represented in the
wild woods the military chest of Great Britain.
The Indians whom Calvin had induced to consent to aid
in the defence of the camp, upon being advised of the
agreement, rose from their lurking-places, and, after uttering
several halloos, dispersed in pursuit of game. In vain
the Delawares pleaded with Calvin to accompany them. He
could not be torn away from the Indian maiden.
Charles and the Rev. Mr. Jones, desirous of hastening
to the place designated for the meeting of the grand
council, urged forward the preparations for departure.
The horses were packed without delay, and, as the aunt of
Thayendanegea had quite a number of extra ones, the
whole party were well mounted. But it was in vain that
the Indian women strove to persuade Julia to ride as they
did—astride like the men. She preferred the English
custom.
The first day some forty miles were accomplished, and
they encamped on the Shenango River, selecting a position
susceptible of defence. But there was no molestation.
Mr. Jones uttered a long prayer in the deep solitude of
the forest, and after a hearty meal the travellers, all excepting
the sentry, were hushed in profound repose. But
the stillness of the night was once broken by the fierce
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barking of Van Wiggens's dog, who snuffed the prowling
wolves. Hugh McSwine wished to kill him, as he might
betray them if an enemy should be lurking in the vicinity.
But this the honest Dutchman would not listen to. He
took his “Vatch” in his arms, and, whenever he manifested
an inclination to bark or whine, he choked him into
silence.
Fortunately there were no enemies lurking in the vicinity;
and the next morning, after a hearty breakfast, they
resumed the journey. But, as the meat had been consumed,
several of the most skilful woodsmen were sent forward
to kill game for their next meal. A buffalo they found
afforded some sport. It ran in view of the main body of
the travellers for more than a mile, and finally fell in their
rear within a few paces of Peter Shaver, whose ass, scenting
the blood, brayed, as usual, most vociferously.
“And what sort of a baste is that?” asked Paddy Pence,
who had been lagging in company with Peter, and listening
to a narrative of his exciting adventures among the
Indians.
“It's a buffalo,” said Peter. “And a fine fat cow.”
“A cow, you say! And I wonder if it gives any milk!
And who'd milk such an ugly monster? But the mate is
good, for I tasted some in the camp.”
“It's mate was a bull, Paddy. There are no wild steers
in these woods; and the beef of a bull even an Indian
won't eat unless he's half starved.”
“And who was saying any thing about its swateheart?
You must be hard of hearing, though you and your baste
have ears enough for four men and sax horses. Mate!—I
said mate!”
“Oh, you mean meat, I guess. But here they come to
skin the cow.”
During the day several deer were slaughtered, and
subsequently there was no scarcity of provisions in the
camp.
And Paddy became familiar with the rattle of venomous
snakes, and, after repeatedly flying from them, learned to
kill them like the rest,—an operation of easy performance
when one has the nerve to do it, for they are very inactive.
One day Paddy, emboldened by his continued escape
from the dangers of the wilderness, borrowed Van
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Wiggens's rifle and sallied forth with the hunters, to enjoy
some of the forest sports which were described every night
to admiring listeners. There was no danger of being lost,
as they were now following one of the small tributaries of
the Scioto, and he had only to keep in view of the stream
to guard against the possibility of wandering from the
right direction.
But he soon returned to leave his horse in charge of
Peter, saying he would try it on foot, as his “baste” made
so much noise dragging its “fut” through the dry “laves”
the deer all ran away before he could see enough of them
to fire at. But Paddy strove in vain to kill a deer. He
started several, whose snorting he could hear very distinctly
as they sprang up from their beds, and once or twice he
had glimpses of the whites of their tails as they leaped over
the bushes; but they were gone before he could take aim
and pull trigger. After bestowing some abusive epithets
on them for not standing, like “dacent bastes,” to be shot
at, he contemptuously abandoned the pursuit, and confined
his attention to the turkeys which every now and then
crossed his path near the stream, within the narrow valley
of which he still confined his wanderings.
But Paddy grew weary at last, and had not a single
trophy to exhibit. The turkeys wouldn't stand fire either;
and he thought it very singular that a gobbler up in a tree
should be able to see him first, inasmuch as he was larger
than the bird, and had larger eyes.
He sat down on a log beside the path. It was growing
late, and the last rays of the setting sun bathed in gold the
tree-tops and summits of the distant hills. A squirrel chattered
on a bough above, with its tail curved over its back.
He looked at Paddy, and Paddy looked at him.
“The little baste is poking his jokes at me!” said Paddy.
“And if I should kill him, wouldn't the boys laugh?
Joke away, my little crature; I don't understand yer lingo,
and I'm sure I shouldn't take offence at it. But what's
that same?”
Paddy was attracted by a rustling among the leaves in a
dense thicket within a dozen yards of him. He thought he
heard also a sound like the crushing of acorns under the
giant oak that overspread the thicket. But he could see
nothing animate, although the chopping of nuts continued
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at intervals. With his eyes fixed in the direction from
whence the sound proceeded, he remained perfectly motionless,
his gun in readiness to fire, and his legs prepared to
run, if any imminent danger became apparent.
He knew not how long he sat and watched. But he could
hear the men fixing the tent-poles near a bend of the
stream some two hundred paces back; and, seeing he was
not likely to be relieved from his perilous situation, if he
were really in danger, by the nearer approach of his comrades,
he began to experience an uncomfortable sensation
of fear creeping up his back and gradually lifting his cap
from his head. But still he could see nothing likely to do
him injury. The saucy squirrel only mocked him; and the
huge owl that flapped through the dusky recesses of the
forest, where the rays of the sun rarely penetrated, never
ventured to assail a man. It could not be a panther he
heard, for that dreadful animal did not feed on acorns. A
bear was not dangerous, as he learned from Peter Shaver,
unless one seized her cub. Paddy had no cub, and he
resolved not to touch one if they should come around him
as abundantly as the fallen leaves.
It would not do, however, to remain thus inactive, and so
he stooped down and peered under the bushes.
“Be jabers!” said he, after gazing some time in silence,
“I'm not afraid o' the likes of you! I've twisted the tails
of too many pigs in ould Ireland to run away from one in
America, and with a gun in my hand to boot!”
It was a large white sow, apparently of great age,
which had strayed from the settlements of the white man,
escaped the knives of the Indian and repelled the assaults
of the wolf. It now ceased to crack the acorns, and lay
quite still in its bed of leaves, for it had likewise become
conscious of the presence of Paddy. It lay with its fierce
eyes fixed upon the intruder, as if partaking of the fearful
and repellent nature of the wild beasts of the forest with
whom alone it had been long associated. But, if it had forgotten
the friendly form of man, Paddy had not forgotten
the usually harmless capabilities of the pig, and so he
resolved to have it for a victim, and as a unique trophy in
the wilderness.
He raised his gun and fired before getting a steady aim,
and the ball, striking too high, glanced along from the top
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of the animal's head, cutting a furrow through the roots of
the bristles and covering its back with blood. For a moment
it was stunned, and Paddy, supposing it dead, approached
with confidence. But, before he could seize it, the
recovered animal rushed toward him with open mouth.
Paddy, however, was in his element in a contest with a pig,
and so, throwing down his gun, was in readiness for the
assault. He sprang up with his feet apart and descended
on the back of the sow, with his head toward her tail. He
clasped his arms tightly round her body, and hugged her
neck with his legs, so she could not turn and bite him.
But she could open her mouth, and did so, and squealed
and squeaked terrifically, running along the path toward
the encampment. All were anxious to see the beast making
such horrific sounds; and when the sow plunged in the
midst of the men she was so much concealed or disfigured
by the body of Paddy that none of the spectators could
conjecture for several minutes what sort of an animal it
was. The squealing was not strange to their ears; but
they did not suppose a hog could be found in a region so
far from the dwellings of white men.
And soon the ass, getting the scent of blood, began to
bray with all the power of his lungs; and Van Wiggens's
mongrel cur, being the first to perceive the true nature of
the beast, and true to his instincts, rushed forward in the
midst of the mêlée, (for the sow was now exhausted, and
only turned and squalled, surrounded by the crowd of travellers,)
but, instead of seizing the animal's ear, as he
intended, got hold of Paddy's calf by mistake.
“Och, murther!” cried Paddy. “Take away the dog!
He's tearing me leg! Two on one is foul play, and fair
play's a jewel. Take away your baste of a cur, Mr. Van
Wiggens, or I'll worry you when I'm done with this chap.
I'd thank you for the loan of a knife, Mr. Shaver,” he
continued; “for mine has dhropt out of me hilt in the
tussell.” And, being accommodated by Peter, Paddy succeeded
in cutting the throat of the sow, and so put an end
to its squealing.
The sow, being very fat, was highly relished by the men;
and there was great abundance of deer and turkeys killed
by the hunters. Paddy's knife and Van Wiggens's gun
were found where they had been dropped; and the affair
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of the sow caused much merriment when referred to during
the remainder of the journey, which was accomplished
without further difficulty or remarkable event.
When the party reached Chillicothe they were in advance
of the Eastern Indians; but quite a number of Western
chiefs and their families were present. Chillicothe was an
old Indian town, and consisted of many huts of a more
substantial character than those generally inhabited by the
roving children of the forest. Gentle Moonlight possessed
several of these houses, of which her deceased husband had
been the proprietor, as well as a large body of land adjacent
to the village. These she took possession of, and the
whole party were soon comfortably domiciled in huts and
tents.
But, as runners were constantly arriving from various
directions, the place was continually agitated with news,
sometimes encouraging to the captives, but often the
reverse.
The Cherokees and Shawnees, as well as other Western
Indians sojourning at Chillicothe, although they were very
kind to the aunt and sister of Brandt, and friendly to
Charles, Calvin, and the missionary, Mr. Jones, did not
seem to regard the other captives with the respect which
had been hoped for. There were, besides, a number of prisoners
from Pennsylvania, Virginia, and Kentucky, and
they were so carefully watched and securely guarded that
even the obtuse Peter Shaver could not avoid the inference
that peace was not to be “calculated” upon.
Among the prisoners met with in the town was a tall,
straight man, with broad shoulders and muscular limbs,
denoting extraordinary strength. He generally sat apart,
smiling composedly at the diverting conduct or amusing
anecdotes of the Indians; or, if not addressed by any of
them or the object of their notice, his eyes were fixed abstractedly
on the dark woods down the right bank of the
Scioto; and one beholding his countenance would suppose
he longed to be again a free rover in the boundless
wilderness.
This was Daniel Boone, then in the prime of manhood;
and it was the second or third time he had fallen into
the hands of the Indians. He was a brave man, and the
Indians loved him. He was as good a woodsman as any of
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their own chiefs, and they respected him so highly that
extraordinary exertions were made to induce him to live
among them and become the head of a great family. But
he had already a wife and children in Kentucky; and, besides,
he loved the solitudes of the forest rather than the
boisterous society of his fellow-men, whether savage or
civilized.
The Rev. Mr. Jones and Boone had often met before;
and the latter had promised the preacher that when they
encountered again, if there should be water, he would desire
to be baptized. And now the preacher claimed the
fulfilment of his promise, declaring to the Indians who
listened that the ceremony would afford him more pleasure
and be a greater honour in the sight of the Good Spirit
than the taking of scalps in time of war. And Boone did
not object. His wife was a Baptist. He had reached the
meridian of life, and would no longer postpone the performance
of a sacred duty.
And so, on the third day after the arrival of the party at
Chillicothe, the banks of the Scioto were lined with Indians,
men, (old men mostly,) women, and children, to witness the
baptism by immersion of “Captain Boone.” But Mr.
Jones had not usually been in the habit of going down into
the water with a solitary convert, nor was he under the
necessity of doing so on that occasion. The aged Tammany,
a chief of the Western Delawares, who had ever been
his friend, stood beside him on the margin of the water,
prepared to submit to the ordinance prescribed for the salvation
of sinners. Priests of other denominations had
proposed other modes of baptism; but the plan of Mr. Jones,
who had been most instrumental in his conversion, seemed
appropriate to the Indian, and very similar to a ceremony
of their own in washing away the blood of another race.
Nor were the enthusiastic Baptist's labours to end with
Tammany—who subsequently became a saint; but Gentle
Moonlight and Brown Thrush likewise consented to go
down with him into the water and take upon themselves
the Christian's vows. Mr. Jones did not require any extraordinary
sacrifices. Their great Ha-wen-no-yu, he said,
was but another name for the Christian's God, their Kacha
Manito the Christian's Holy Spirit, and Malcha Manito
the devil. The latter they must cease praying to to punish
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their enemies, as the God of the Christians could destroy
as well as preserve. Although with them this was not
quite an admitted axiom, yet they promised to follow the
instructions of their Christian guide. And Boone himself
stipulated that he was not to be turned out of the church
for the occasional epithets—called oaths—which sometimes
escaped him, and of which he might be unconscious. It
was a fixed habit, and he was too old to correct it. In
short, Mr. Jones did not require of his Indian converts
any other change of life than to believe in the plan of redemption
he taught, and to conform to the few precepts he
strove to impress upon their minds. They might be great
warriors and chiefs and at the same time very good Christians.
And Boone might go on killing game and scalping
his enemies as usual.
Charles and Julia were silent spectators of the scene,
which was solemn and impressive. The Sabbath day was
unclouded, and not a breeze ruffled the surface of the water.
With a becoming gravity of face, a dignified step, and the
song of praise issuing from his mouth, the preacher went
down into the water; and, the requisite responses being
uttered, and no one forbidding, the ceremony of baptism
by immersion was duly performed.
“Now, Charles,” said Julia, “what good effect will that
produce?”
“They believe,” said Charles. “They rely implicitly
upon the truth of what Mr. Jones has spoken. He has
said there can be no salvation without baptism, according
to the Scriptures. They believe it, and are baptized. There
will be no important change in their conduct. My forest
mother and sister were ever good and guileless.”
“And now, Charles, the Thrush is a Christian!”
“Yes, but still an Indian. Why do you seem distressed?”
“These terrible rumours!” said she, as they slowly followed
the dripping converts returning to their wigwams.
“What is to become of us? I might have escaped from
my captors, but I thought you would soon return with me,
and I was impelled by a love of romantic adventure. I
thought it would soon be over, and never dreamed of actual
danger and real vexations. But they have brought me
still farther into the boundless forest, I know not how
many hundreds of miles away from—”
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“From whom, Julia? You have no kindred on earth
that you know of, and no better friend than myself.”
“True. But will I not lose my best friend? Is he not
surrounded by enemies?”
“We will escape, Julia,” said he, in a low tone, (for
James Girty, the brother of Simon, was, as usual, standing
near them, and probably endeavouring to learn the subject
of their conversation.) “Mr. Boone,” he added, “has
planned it, and will accompany us. He has learned that
the Indians intend making a hostile visit to Kentucky, and
we will be there to receive them.”
“Kentucky! still farther into the Western wilds!” said
Julia, with a sigh, which indicated that her love of forest
adventure, of which she had often boasted in her letters to
Kate Livingston, was rapidly abating.
“Once there, Julia, we will be free. We will be no
longer subjected to the tyrannical caprices of Queen Esther,
who, I learn from the Seneca that came in this morning,
declares I must either wed my Indian sister or else remain
a prisoner.”
“Will not the Indian maiden and her aunt go with us?”
“No. At least such is not the intention. If war ensues,
as I fear it will,—for the British agent here has arms, ammunition,
trinkets, and money, to distribute gratuitously,
and the Americans, not being similarly represented, are
looked upon by my silly red brethren with contempt,—they
would not be permitted to dwell among us.”
“Then let us go! I fear your forest sister will do some
dreadful deed.”
“Why?”
“She speaks fiercely and gesticulates violently in her
dreams.”
“She dreamed of war,—of her brother, no doubt, and
thought he was slaughtering her Christian friends. No;
she will never injure you. She might have committed
violence on her own life, had not Mr. Jones told her it
would be a fatal crime and bar her entrance into the
perennial paradise.”
“Let us depart immediately!” continued Julia. “Oh,
let us go before the grand council of warriors assemble!
I know they will declare war. Indeed, as Mr. Jones said
last night, when the party came in from the Monogahela,
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their approach announced by the terrible scalp-halloo,
which still sounds in my ears, war has already begun!
And the horrid spectacle of human scalps, stretched on
hoops, drying in view of our tent! It is too dreadful!”
“I know it. But control your emotions, Julia. Do not
seem agitated and shocked by such exhibitions during the
next few days. I did not like to announce the startling
tidings that have reached us, for fear we might be betrayed
by our feelings. But it is too true that the tomahawk
has fallen on the heads of our people in some of the
frontier settlements, and Mr. Boone is convinced that the
Five Nations will carry the Western tribes with them to
the British. We must be discreet, and apparently indifferent
to the occurrences around us; and soon we will be
beyond the reach of our enemies. Be in readiness to fly at
any hour of the night. Boone will plan every thing.”
“And will they not pursue us?”
“Certainly. But our party will number some twenty-five
well-armed men, as other prisoners will go with us;
and we will be able to keep the foe at bay until we cross
the Ohio. Most of the warriors here are, as you see, old
men. Boone is advised of the movements of those more
active, now lingering on the Little Miami, where they have
fallen in with a large herd of buffalo. We will have the
start of them, as their runners will give notice of their
approach and announce their success. In the mean time
we must do nothing to excite suspicion.”
“But why not go at once?—to-night?”
“Some of our men are unarmed. We must contrive to
supply the deficiency from the British depôt, and Boone will
devise the means. We must employ stratagem, and keep
the boys and old men in good humour. They are, as you
may have observed, exceedingly fond of diverting scenes;
and Boone, though seemingly incapable of smiling himself,
is preparing an exhibition for this afternoon which will
amuse them. He has had Paddy Pence and Peter Shaver
looking at the bloody scalps, and informed them (confidentially)
that the only sure method of avoiding a similar
fate is to be adopted into an Indian family. They have
most eagerly consented, and an old squaw, the widow of a
Choctaw warrior, has agreed to receive one of them as her
husband and the other as a son. The ceremony of
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initiation will take place this evening before the assembled population
of the village. Boone will be more popular than
ever, and they will cause the Englishman to give the adopted
couple two good rifles. And Hugh McSwine, though so
silent and grave, is heartily co-operating. His Scots will
assume the Indian costume, indicating a purpose to undergo
the ceremony of initiation as soon as Indians can be found
to adopt them. Poor Van Wiggens would, I believe, prefer
living among them to returning to his scolding wife.
He, too, will probably be adopted to-day. Go now and
cheer my poor sister. Tell her I am much pleased with
her, and that I hope our heavenly Father will permit us to
dwell together in paradise, never to be separated more.”
Julia had scarcely entered the house of Gentle Moonlight
when Charles heard the halloo of a small party of
warriors returning from the South. From the sounds, he
understood they had a prisoner and one scalp.
He soon after saw a young man of herculean frame led
into the town. He was not made to run the gauntlet, for
as yet war had not been formally declared, although it
certainly existed. The prisoner's name was Simon Kenton,
who, on subsequent occasions, suffered much harsh usage
at the hands of the Indians, and has since figured in several
romances. But, as this is a plain narrative of facts, we
will not make any draughts on the imagination. He was a
young man without education, an excellent shot, a good
woodsman, a brave scout, honest and generous. But he
deemed it no disgrace to steal horses from the Indians, and
had just been taken in the act.
CHAPTER XII.
THE CEREMONY OF ADOPTION.
The procession approached the river, passing by the
skin tents and log houses on its line of march, the route
having been planned to please the greatest possible number.
The head of the column was led by Diving Duck, (the meaning
of her Indian name, its orthography forgotten,) who
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was to adopt Paddy and Peter into her family. This old
squaw was a worthless creature, having never lived happily
with her husband, and had always been addicted to immoderate
drinking.
Next to Diving Duck came Peter Shaver, mounted on his
jackass and surrounded by all the boys. Every now and
then some one would hold a piece of raw meat to the ass's
nose, and then he brayed. This was succeeded by prolonged
laughter, which, beginning with the boys, spread
like an epidemic through all classes up to the most stoical
octogenarian.
Paddy followed immediately behind the ass, and was accompanied
by Van Wiggens and his dog. The Scots and
other white prisoners were farther in the rear, serving to
lengthen the procession.
When they arrived on the bank of the river, Peter dismounted,
and his ass was led away braying by one of the
boys having raw meat or pepper-corns.
“And now,” said Paddy, “before we go any furder
in this family bisness, I wud like to be towld what I am
to be.”
“You are to be an Indian,” said Charles, who acted as
interpreter.
“I know that, Misther Charles,” said Paddy. “But, I
mane, what am I to be in the family? Am I to be the
black old Didapper's son or husband?”
Charles, after speaking to the squaw, said she was not
yet prepared to announce the lucky man of her choice.
“She manes,” said Paddy, musing painfully, “to take
us both on trial. Tell her, Mr. Charles, I won't go into
her family until I know what futting I am to go on.”
“Paddy, she wishes to know the position you would
prefer.”
“Position? Och, she manes sitiation! Say SON, by
all manes, and board and mending; I'll saa after the
wages widout her assistance.”
“And what would you be, Peter?” asked Charles.
“I guess any thing rather than be sculped,” said Peter.
“But you will please make the best bargain for me you
can. Although I'd rather be her husband than die at the
stake, I rather think I would prefer dying any easy way
than to marry such an ugly infernal old—”
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“Howld yer tongue!” cried Paddy, furiously. “Would
ye be afther having that translated till her? Would ye
have her to be scratching yer nasty piebald face here in
this company? To be sure ye would! And thin you think
she wouldn't have ye, and be afther taking me, do ye?
And that would be one of yer Yankee tricks, would it?
It's dishonest! it's ungintlemanly! it's—rascality! to
take advantage of a rival in that fashion! And, if ye was
to succeed, I'd pound yer head to a jelly with me two fists.
And then to talk about dying in any aisy way! I would
like to know the difference atwane dying by having the
breath burnt out, bled out, drownded out, or physicked out?
Dying aisy, is it?”
Now, Charles had rapidly translated such portions of this
speech as best suited his purpose, which, together with
Paddy's menacing attitude and gestures, produced a prodigious
burst of merriment. Even the young prisoner, Simon
Kenton, whose arms were stretched asunder and made fast
by thongs to a strong stake that ran across his breast,
laughed so heartily (for he had a sound pair of lungs) as to
attract general attention. Boone, taking advantage of this,
and seeming to be an entire stranger to the tall captive,
(although they were intimate friends,) remarked to one of
the warriors that no man could laugh without pain when
bound in that manner; and, the good-humour of the latter
preponderating over his prudence, he drew his knife and
liberated the captive's arms.
Diving Duck, comprehending what had passed between
Paddy and Peter, turned her ugly face toward the latter
and uttered a torrent of vituperation which it would have
been difficult for Charles to render into intelligible English;
but the purport of it could hardly have been mistaken even
by a dog. And Van Wiggens's little mongrel cur retreated
a few paces and barked at the virago, no doubt detecting
some resemblance between her and Mrs. Van Wiggens.
“And that's the reward you get for blabbing in that
undacent way,” said Paddy. “Och! you ought to be
ashamed of yerself!”
This little speech being made known to the squaw, she
approached Paddy with a ghastly grin, meant, no doubt,
for a grateful smile, and, taking his hand, called him her
husband.
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“What does she mane by that?” asked Paddy.
“She says,” continued Charles, “that she thanks you
for resenting the vile aspersions of the Yankee Popcorn, the
chief of the asses, and a thousand other pleasant things I
am unable to translate in this modest company. And, as
a slight manifestation of her gratitude, she is determined to
bestow her hand upon you.”
“Murther! how am I to get out of this scrape? I'll
give you a broken head, Misther Pater Shaver, for yer foul
play. You're a vile chating rival, and, be the sowl of St.
Patrick, ye shall not succade! Be the powers, ye shall
marry her or burn! Misther Charles, tell 'em to tie me to
the stake; for I'm ready to die, aisy or hard, jist as they
plase. I wont be a blackguard savage and the towl of a
little fat nose-talking Yankee! Let us both burn together
at the same stake, as me Catholic ancestors did in the time
of Elizabeth, who was nicknamed the Vargin Quane. The
Holy Vargin presarve us! It sames that the whole family
of Pences are to be the victims of the women! Tell 'em
to pile up their fagots! Grane ones will do. The grase
of my fat companion will make 'em burn. And when we
are both wrapped in the flames, Pater,” he continued,
doubling his fists and assuming a boxing attitude, “I'll
give you a taste of the science by way of dessert to the
fry!”
This, too, when interpreted to the Indians, produced
peals of laughter, and the old chiefs patted Paddy's back,
calling him a brave man.
“I would have been a dutiful son to ye,” continued
Paddy, moved to tears, “and maintained ye at yer aise;
and, instead of being grateful, you must be calling me mother
names. No! I won't be the father of any sich a vile
varmint!”
“Paddy!” said Peter, moved by the tears, for they convinced
him he was in earnest, “oh, Paddy, say no more
about burning! I'll save you from that. I'll marry her
rather than die. I guess I can manage her. I'll marry
her, Paddy!”
“Then I shall be bound to pay you riverence. And, in
the first place, I beg yer pardon for what I have said to
your disparagement, and take it all back again.”
This being rendered into the Indian tongue, Diving Duck
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became more furious than ever, and said they should both
burn, as she would not marry either of them.
Then Peter, amid shouts of laughter, got down on his
knees and humbly begged her to pardon him and accept his
hand.
“You see what it is,” said Paddy, kneeling behind Peter,
“for a woman to have two strings to her bow. Kape at
her, Pater; she'll yeald prisently. Depind upon it, she'll
not let ye die if she's to lose a husband by it.”
And Peter, persisting, received a blow on the side of his
face which sent him sprawling on the earth.
“What do ye mane by trating me rispicted father in that
ungintlemanly manner?” cried Paddy, springing up and
seizing the old squaw, whom he held securely by the arms
in despite of her kicks and cries, to the infinite amusement
of the crowd. “If you are to be me mother I must tache
ye betther manners. And is this an example to sit before
the face of yer childer? Is this the sort of brading ye
would bring yer darlint son up to? Ye ought to be
ashamed of yerself!”
And the Didapper uttered two words to Paddy's one.
But, when he relinquished his hold, Charles announced to
the disappointed multitude that the ceremony of fire would
have to be substituted for that of water, as Diving Duck
would have neither of them for her husband.
At this juncture Van Wiggens, who had been a contemplative
spectator of the scene, stepped forward and whispered
to Charles that, although he did not fear burning at
the stake half so much as he did the scathing tongue of
Mrs. “Wan Viggens,” if it would not be bigamy and subject
him to the penalty of the law, he was willing to save
his two friends from death by becoming himself their
father and the husband of the furious squaw.
When this was announced to Diving Duck, she scrutinized
the Dutchman very carefully, and, after walking round
him as if examining the limbs of a horse, signified her
willingness to accept him as a substitute, provided he would
whip both of his sons after the wedding.
To this condition both Paddy and Peter readily consented,
and the squaw then grasped the hand of her
affianced lord. But the little stump-tailed mongrel cur of
Van Wiggens seemed to have some objection to the
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arrangement, and flew round, barking fiercely at the squaw, who paid
no further attention to his violence than to seize him by the
back of his neck and cast him over the bank into the river,
whence he speedily swam ashore, cowed into submission.
“Tam her! he thought it was Mrs. Wan Viggens!” said
the Dutchman.
All the preliminaries being adjusted, six young Indian
girls, supposed from their stature to be about midway in
their teens, came gliding forward. Each of them grasped
a hand of the three candidates for adoption, and led them
down the river-bank and along the edge of the water to a
gigantic sycamore, whose broad leaves, though deeply reddened
by the early frosts, yet hung over the stream and
intercepted the rays of the descending sun. The great
crowd of Indians posted themselves a short distance apart,
where they could see the operation of initiation to the
greatest advantage. Boone and Charles, however, attended
the candidates under the tree.
“You must submit without resistance,” said Boone, addressing
the men; “for, if you do not comply with their
demands, you will not be considered perfect Indians.”
“Be the powers,” said Paddy, looking to his right and
his left, “such cratures as these don't same as if they meant
to do us any harm. But, if ye plase, Misther Bone, I'd
take it as a favour if you'd tell me what they mane to do
wid us in the wather.”
“No matter what: all you have to do is to obey them
in every particular,” was the reply.
“And they mane to go in wid us?” continued Paddy.
“Certainly,” said Charles; “don't you see they are prepared
to do so?”
Paddy examined the costume of the girls, which consisted
merely of blankets and narrow breech-cloths. Their leggins
and moccasins had been left behind.
The Indian maids proceeded, according to the usual custom
with candidates for adoption, to disencumber the men of
their clothing.
Peter Shaver, being in Indian costume, was easily disrobed,—
one of the girls removing his blanket, while the
other undid his moccasins and leggins, leaving nothing but
his breech-cloth,—a sort of apron going round the body
above the hips and reaching nearly to the knees.
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The girls were exceedingly amused and interested. Peter's
corpulency, and his very white skin where the sun had
not shone upon it and where the dust of travel had not
accumulated, particularly arrested their attention.
Peter had been so much among the Indians of late, assimilating
with their habits, that he did not think of blushing
at the exposure of his neck, shoulders, breast, and knees.
It was different with Paddy and Van Wiggens. They
submitted in silence to the removal of their coats, and even
their shirts, and stood with all the indifference they could
command, like pugilists prepared for encounter in the lists.
“Mr. Bone! Mr. Bone!” whispered Paddy at this stage
of the proceedings, “plase tell 'em we haven't got any
breech-clouts on.”
They seemed to be aware of this, and proceeded to remove
only the moccasins and leggins, rolling up their
breeches, however, and exposing their legs as much as possible.
“You must submit without complaining,” remarked
Charles, with a seriousness well affected, when the girls
again seized their hands and led them toward the edge of
the water.
“Complainin', did ye say?” responded Paddy; “and if
it's killing they're going to do, ye may be sure we'll die an
aisy death. Mr. Bone, if you are acquainted wid the
parents of these girls, you'd do me a favour to bespake one
of 'em—and be me faith you may include both—for me, as
soon as we are turned to savages. And if there are no
praists to marry us, Mr. Jones might do till we could find
one.”
“The Indians will let you have as many wives as you
can support,” said Mr. Boone; “but the priest would ban
you if you had more than one.”
“I know it! But do ye think he'd curse a man afther
he'd turned Indian? He would marry me to one and I'd
marry meself to the other. Like a good Christian, I'd have
one lawfully-wedded wife, and, like an Indian, I'd have
anither which the praist'd have no business to meddle
wid. It's forward, is it, me darlints? On wid ye! I can
stand in as dape water as any o' ye,” he continued, as he
was led into the stream.
They waded out until the water rose to the shoulders of
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the girls, and then commenced the process of scrubbing.
Each of the maidens had taken into the water the cob of
an ear of Indian corn, with which they rasped the breasts
and limbs of the white men.
“Mr. Bone,” cried Paddy, “what d'ye think they're
rubbing us for? There's no flays under the water to bite
us.”
“But dere's a tam crawfish biting my leg,” said Van
Wiggens, “and I wish dey'd rub furder down.”
“You needn't rub me so hard,” said Peter to his attendants.
“I'm almost an Indian now. Don't you know
they made me a chief?”
“Popcorn! chief!” said one of his girls, who could speak
a few English words.
“Murther!” cried Paddy.
“Are they hurting you?” asked Charles.
“Hurting, is it? It's tackling one to death! What are
they rubbing us for?”
“Ask them,” said Boone; “they can answer in English,
and have been taught our language for the purpose of explaining
such things.”
“My most lovely and beautiful miss,—and there's a
charming pair o' ye, as much alike as two cherries,—be
plased to tell me what're ye rubbing the small of me back
for?”
“Wash white blood away,” was the answer.
“White blood, is it? Be my sowl, ye're mistaken, for
it's as red as a rose.”
“White man's blood—wash away—Indian's blood come.”
“Now I understhand! And ye're a charming one to do
it! And she spakes as good English as Paddy himself!
And won't you be me swate little wife? Och, murther!”
cried he, turning to the other, “you naadn't tear me flesh
away, for I meant to take both of ye.”
“Dey ton't know enough of English to scold,” said the
contemplative Van Wiggens, “and I'll marry one too. Do
you scold?” he asked of one of his scrubbers.
“Me no talk. Diving Duck talk much,” she replied,
smiling mischievously.
“Tam te old Titapper!” said Van Wiggens; “I forgot
her. She's an old granny of sixty. I'm only dirty, and
Mrs. Wan Viggens is dirty-two. I vant a young vife.”
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“Why are you so silent, Peter?” asked Charles, observing
the Connecticut man plunged in deep abstraction.
“I guess I'll stop at that,” said Peter, endeavouring to
thrust aside his attendants. “Maybe there's more in this
operation than we are aware of. By water our sins are
washed away, and we are made Christians. This may be
an invention of the devil to wash away Christianity and
make us hisn.”
“Och, murther!” cried Paddy. “Begone, ye divil's
imps! 'scat, ye witches!” continued he, and by a powerful
effort succeeded in thrusting the girls momentarily away
from him, to the great diversion of the spectators on the
bank, whose silence hitherto indicated that they were
awaiting some such scene.
“Me wash good! Hold still!” said one of the girls,
returning.
“No! 'scat! Begone! or I'll drownd ye like blind puppies.
It's a contrivance to sell our sowls for the price of
our bodies! And I wont be a savage widout I can be a
civilized Catholic Christian too.”
“Oh, you may be a Christian,” said Charles, “if you
can be content to put up with one wife.”
“I'll do it, and defy the divil!” said Paddy; “and I'll
draw lots betwixt 'em. Hillo!” he continued, seeing the
girls dragging him and his companions into still deeper
water. “Don't do that! It's up to me breast now, and
it'll soon be over yer heads. It wouldn't be safe, me
darlints, to go in ony daaper. Hillo, I say! It's up to me
chin, and the divil's daughters are swamming like bavers.
Stop, I tell ye! Would ye drownd yer future husband?
I can't swame! I tell ye I can't swame!” And when
Paddy uttered this earnest protestation he had to hold
back his head to keep his nose above water.
“Wash all white blood out! Wash head too!” said the
girls; and, making a simultaneous effort, they succeeded at
the same moment in pushing the heads of all three beneath
the surface. Then, springing nimbly aside, (for they were
skilful swimmers,) they laughed very heartily, while the
spectators on the shore made the welkin ring with their
plaudits.
“I guess that'll do, won't it?” cried Peter, popping up
again and expelling a stream of water from his mouth.
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“Murther!” cried Paddy, rising, puffing and floundering
like a porpoise. “Me swate lovely gals!” said he, after
succeeding in fixing his toes in the sand at the bottom, and
keeping his mouth and nose an inch above the surface, but
unable to see the shore, and incapable of proceeding in any
direction without danger of submersion, “och, me swate
cratures, I'll marry ayther of ye, or both thegither, as
soon as ye plase, if ye'll only pull me out o' this!”
“Tam dem!” roared the Dutchman, rising the last of
the three, and, being able to swim, struck for the shore.
But he was seized by his attendants and forcibly thrust
under again.
“Tam der skins!” he continued, rising again and facing
his tormentors. They seized his hands, and he endeavoured
to kick them. But at every attempt to do so they
thrust his head under, amid shouts from the whole population
of the town assembled on the bank.
There was one witness to this struggle, however, who
did not remain an idle spectator. This was Watch, Van
Wiggens's faithful little mongrel cur. He leaped into the
stream and swam to the rescue of his master. But, before
he could reach him, he came near forfeiting his life; for a
young brother of one of the girls aimed an arrow at his
head, which grazed his nose; and he was fixing another to
the string when one of the chiefs snatched the bow away.
The girls themselves did not fear the dog.
“Make Indian dog too,” said one of them, when Watch
exposed his teeth.
“He'll bite!” said Van Wiggens.
“Wash white man's blood out of dog too,” said the girl,
and the next moment she dived beneath the surface. An
instant after, Watch uttered a sharp cry and disappeared.
“Dey are de teiffle's taughters temselves!” said Van
Wiggens.
“He's Indian dog now,” said the girl, rising, after
several moments of breathless suspense, during which it was
generally feared poor Watch had descended too deeply
and remained too long under the water ever to rise again.
“He won't bite Indian now,” she continued, holding the
almost lifeless animal's nose above the surface. “He
won't die,” said she, reversing the body and causing the
water to flow out of his mouth. And, when animation re
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turned, poor Watch, released, paddled back to the shore in
piteous submission, and did not open his mouth again.
“Aha! me darlints!” cried Paddy, watching an opportunity,
and seizing both of his girls round their waists,
“I've got ye now! We'll sink or swame thegether! If you
can howld your breaths the longest under the wather, you'll
find Paddy Pence can squeeze the hardest above it, and
he'll die with his death-grip upon ye!”
The Indians on the bank yelled with delight, and the
girls begged to be released.
“Divil the bit!” cried Paddy. “I'll saa ye at the bottom
first! Will ye be me squaws? Answer me that, my
darlints.”
“Must ask mother in a basket,” was the reply. The
mode of declaration among the Indians is to leave a present
in a basket at the tent of the girl's mother.
“In a basket, is it? No! it's in the strame! And ye
must answer for yerselves, and I'll fax the mother aftherward.
Onyhow, ye can jist let me have a kiss or two to
sale the bargain;” and Paddy, in despite of their cries and
struggles, kissed them repeatedly, while the spectators
greeted him with cheering shouts.
Van Wiggens, following the example of his dog and of
Peter Shaver, submitted to the will and pleasure of his attendants,
and was glad to find that when he ceased to make
sport for them they ceased to torment him.
This ceremony lasted more than an hour, and was terminated
by one of the old men, a sachem, who approached
the water's edge, leading the old squaw into whose family
the men were to be received. Some words of investiture
were uttered during the profound silence that ensued when
the girls led the washed candidates to the shore. They
were to the effect that the adopted Indians must forget that
they ever were white men, and love and honour none but
Indians. They were to hunt game in time of peace, and
to steal horses and scalp their enemies in time of war.
Van Wiggens's dog was to watch at the door of his wigwam
while Diving Duck hoed the corn in the garden;
and he besought his new brother not to beat his squaw so
much as her first husband had done.
The Dutchman, who had looked with dread and aversion
on his second Mrs. Van Wiggens, plucked new spirits upon
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learning that among the Indians husbands were allowed to
whip their wives and be masters of their own households.
And without the least delay he ordered his wife to prepare
a dozen roasting-ears for his dinner, which being translated
by Charles, the old squaw went away grumbling,
doubtless to obey the command.
Then the next thing to be done was the assuming of the
Indian costume by Paddy and the Dutchman. The latter
objected to having any of his hair cut off, while Paddy was
for having his head entirely denuded. He had a deadly
aversion to scalp-locks. Boone and Charles superintended
that portion of the ceremony, and in a very short time the
two new Indians—one Dutch and the other Irish—were
strutting proudly through the streets.
But Paddy and Peter saw no more of the girls that day.
Nor could they form a matrimonial alliance, according to
the lex non scripta of the tribe, without the concurrence
of their mothers. Nor could Van Wiggens, in his capacity
of the head of a family, cede away lands without the sanction
of his spouse. Thus, in civil transactions, and particularly
in hereditary matters, such as successions to titles
and estates, the squaws performed a most important part.
But, if the husband could do nothing without the permission
of his wife, he might beat her if she displeased him,—that
is, if he possessed the physical ability to do so; if not, she
might beat him.
During the dusk of the deepening twilight, Boone and
Charles, who still lingered on the margin of the river,
espied a slight movement in a tuft of blackberry-bushes at
the edge of the embankment and not exceeding six paces
from where they sat. A moment after, they beheld a man
slowly and noiselessly lift his head and gaze toward the
village. They grasped their knives, for they had been
talking of their meditated escape, determined, if it were an
Indian who had been listening, to prevent him from frustrating
their plans by taking his life, as they considered
such a sacrifice justifiable when necessary for their own
salvation. But they were relieved on seeing the man approach
them. It was Kenton, who had succeeded in secreting
himself while the Indians were enjoying their sport,
with the intention to effect his escape as soon as it grew dark;
but, fortunately, hearing the project of Boone and Charles,
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he wisely and nobly relinquished his purpose of immediate
flight. He knew his disappearance would subject the rest
of the prisoners to a stricter vigilance, and might cause the
death of some of them.
“You are a noble fellow!” said Charles, upon learning
his motive.
“And you shall escape with us,” said Boone.
“Yes—never fear me!” said Kenton. “I'm harder to
hold than an eel. They're in a good humour now. I
didn't want any of 'em to see I had hid, though! The
devil can soon get into 'em.”
“And now, when you return voluntarily with us,” said
Boone, “their suspicion will be lulled.”
“I thought of that,” said Kenton, sitting on the root of
the sycamore beside them. “Let's wait till they miss me
and give the yell. There it is now! I knew it! They'd've
given me a hard race! They're coming! Now let us
meet them.”
They did so, and the warriors patted Simon on the back,
and said, “You honest man; but mustn't steal Indian's hoss.
Don't be hoss-steal; don't be dam white man.”
The Indians generally can speak enough of our language
to make themselves understood; and they first learn how
to swear. They have no oaths in their own language.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE FLIGHT—THE BATTLE—PADDY'S EXPLOITS.
Bartholomew Calvin, after sitting some time gazing
in silence at the handsome features of the Indian maiden
who had innocently captured his heart and surrendered her
own to another, rose up moodily and strode with melancholy
aspect into the wigwam of his relative, the ancient
Tammany.
The old chief beckoned him to be seated, and pointed
toward the pipe and tobacco. To his surprise, the young
man declined smoking. He then ordered one of his wives
to set some bear's-meat and honey before his nephew.
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These he merely tasted, and then, sitting at his uncle's
feet, said he had come thither to receive his counsel. He
explained to him the painful condition of his heart and his
sentiments regarding the war.
“Listen!” said the old chief, leaning his feeble form
against the wall of his house, which was hung with skins,
and scanning his attenuated limbs, shrunken with age and
palsied with debility. “I have not many words to speak;
but my sister's son shall have them all. I am old. Yet the
days of my youth seem as yesterday. So the life of an old
man is but short. I look at my skin-covered bones and
laugh” (and his wrinkled face was then beaming with bright
smiles) “with the children that mock at me. They will
soon be placed away, and then I will tread the great hunting-grounds,
where there is no age, no disease, no dying.
Listen, sister's son! We pass like a feather blown away.
Why should we wound and kill those people whom the
Great Spirit sent to our shores? Can we kill them all and
drive them hence? No; it is the voice of God. The
Christian's God is the Indian's God. The Indian cannot
oppose him. The Indian may fight for his lands and die
with honour; but he must lose his lands, and then what is
the honour of this world to him when he dwells in another?
You sigh for the Brown Thrush. It is well. When the
White Eagle spreads his wings and passes the mountain,
she will charm thee with her song. Then Brandt will
come, fierce as the wolf-dog and as bloody. Go not with
him. Obey the voice of God. It speaks in the acts of the
white men. They are like the leaves of the trees or the
stars of the heavens. They cannot be counted. She will
go with you. She was baptized because she loved the
Christian youth. She will follow him. But he will have
another, fairer to behold than the Wild Thrush. He cannot
have two. Then you may have one. Go to Sagorighwiyogstha,”
(Jersey, Doer of Justice.) “Die there in peace.
Eat, wear warm clothes, sleep well, and be as happy as you
can, and ever true and honest during life's short day. Then
die. Death is only sleep. Awake in paradise. Meet me
there. My sister's son, I have no more to say.”
Calvin had listened intently, and every word of his ancient
relative seemed engraven on his mind.
He withdrew and strode into the camp of the white
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people. Charles led him into his own tent, where none could
intrude.
“You will not betray me, I know,” said Charles; “and
therefore I have brought you hither to make known our
secret. The white prisoners will escape to-morrow night,
and I shall go with them. Will you remain?”
“Does the Thrush go?”
“No.”
“Then I will remain.”
“Not, I hope, to follow Brandt?”
“No. But I shall probably follow thee with his sister.”
“Alas! what will be her feelings when she learns I have
fled from her? Calvin, I have never loved her as you do.
My affection for her is strong, but it is only that of a
brother. I shall pass many sleepless nights thinking of my
poor devoted forest sister. She loves me as you would
have her love you. She is very beautiful and good, Calvin.
And when I am gone, and married to another, my
friend, watch over my forest sister! Do not let her be
destroyed. Bring her to the Jerseys, and, when she sees
that men there never have two wives, she will love thee.”
For an instant the fire of a long line of noble chieftains
glimmered in the dark eye of the Indian youth and was
then engulfed forever in darkness. The words of his uncle
still sounded in his ears, and the haughty reply another
might have uttered died within him. Without speaking,
he pressed the hand of Charles and withdrew.
During the following day quite a number of the Eastern
chiefs arrived, and a great many skins were placed round
the council-fire, (always kept burning,) to be in readiness
for the assembling of the representatives of the nations.
Logan, the great Mingo chief, strode through the village
in sullen gloom, and once paused before the tent of Gentle
Moonlight and gazed steadily at the fair face of Julia.
She grasped his hand with tears in her eyes, for the sad
tale of the murder of his family—wife and children, even
his little pet pappoose, two years old — had often been
repeated in her presence. And he did not speak. His
tongue could not find utterance. But he pointed toward
the East, and turned away. Julia understood him, and
became more impatient than ever to depart.
In the afternoon Queen Esther's drum was heard. The
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blood of the prisoners ran cold in their veins. Preceded
by the music, and followed by her guards, the implacable
old woman first visited the grand-council-chamber, and
upon every skin she placed small pictures of the massacre
of Cornstalk and his son Elenipsico, and Red Hawk, and
the wife and babes of Logan. These had been engraved in
Canada, under the direction of the Johnstons and Butlers,
for distribution among the Indians. Then she walked
round the council-fire three times, chanting one of her infernal
songs, and casting brimstone into the flame.
Withdrawing from the council-chamber, she hastened to
the house which had been prepared for her reception, and
summoned the ancient chiefs of the Senecas to appear
before her.
“My children,” said she, “why have I seen the pale-face
prisoners walking about with guns in their hands?
Are we not at war? Do they permit their Indian prisoners
to go at large? Where are the chiefs that were betrayed
at Point Pleasant? Who knows that before another sun
we shall not be attacked in our wigwams?”
Ughs, shrugs, and grimaces, followed this interrogation.
“What shall we do?” she continued. “We are to have
war. The Great Spirit has told me so in the council-house.
Then we shall kill our prisoners. But, before that time,
suppose our prisoners kill us?”
The Senecas brandished their tomahawks and uttered
fierce threats.
“We will not permit them, my children. To-morrow
morning, at early dawn, we will kill them all! That will
be war! Then let the Oneidas, and Delawares, and Shawnees,
and Cherokees, smoke the peace-pipe with the Americans,
if they will!”
“Warriors!” said Red Jacket, who had followed Queen
Esther, and anticipated some such sanguinary proposition,
“hear what I have to say. Wait till all the chiefs and
sachems, and the grand-sachem of the Five Nations, have
met together and deliberated. That is all I advise.” And
he sat down.
“The Eastern prisoners are mine,” said the old Queen,
“and I may decide their fate.”
“The sister and aunt of Thayendanegea are among
them,” said Red Jacket.
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“They shall live,” said the other.
“The White Eagle, Thayendanegea's white brother, is
among them.”
“If he will not wed Brandt's sister, Brandt will not
mourn for him. He must die, if he will not marry and
live with us.”
“The Delaware youth, the son of Tammany's sister, is
among them.”
“He shall live, and marry Brandt's sister, when White
Eagle is dead.”
“I have spoken,” said Red Jacket. “I have no more
to say. Let my words be remembered.”
The old Queen then dismissed the chiefs, without giving
them any further directions. She relied upon their desire
of vengeance for the loss of their brothers on the Alleghany.
It was near midnight. The fires in the wigwams had
ceased to cast up their flames, and the smouldering embers
threw a deep red glare over the sleeping forms of the
Indians. They sleep as heartily as they eat, and repose is
as necessary to them as food. Like the fowls of the air,
when darkness comes their eyelids grow heavy. They do
not have sentinels. Nor do they often attack in the night.
It was different with the whites. They were lying very
still, it is true, with their fires burning low. But their eyes
were open, and each impatient to rise at the signal and be
gone.
Boone, Kenton, and Hugh McSwine were with Charles
in his little tent communicating with the large one which
contained the rest of the male prisoners. They were lying
on their buffalo robes, speaking in whispers. The horses
which were to convey them to the Ohio River were in readiness,
a few hundred paces from the village, held by one of
the faithful Scots, whose absence from the prisoners' wigwam
had not been observed by the Indian who hastily
counted the captives at night. And Julia had assured them
that she would be able to rise and leave her tent without
awaking her companions.
It was now near the time of departure, and Charles
grew impatient for the signal Julia was to give. The
curtain of buffalo-skins hanging between them and the
large wigwam containing the rest was slightly agitated.
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Charles started up, but instantly resumed his recumbent
position, knowing that Julia would not come from that
direction, stepping over the bodies of the men.
Again the skin was moved, followed by a low sound, like
the chirp of a cricket, and Hugh McSwine sprang up
hastily.
“I dinna' think it can be him,” said Hugh, “but it's like
the chiel's midnight-signal. If it be you, Skippie,” he continued,
“come in, mon!”
The skin was thrust aside, and the whole party rose
to their feet, with the bright blades of their brandished
knives reflecting the dim red glare of the sinking embers.
The form which stood before them was in the Seneca costume.
“Whisper low!” said Boone, grasping the intruder by
the neck with his left hand, “or I'll let out your blood in
the ashes.”
“Loosen your gripe, mon,” said Hugh; “don't you see
his eyes are popping out? He's strangled, mon, and can't
speak.”
“He may give the alarm-halloo,” said Boone, staring at
his unresisting victim.
“No,” said Charles. “A spy would not have obtruded
upon us in this manner. Release him, Mr. Boone.”
Boone did so, and the poor fellow sank down and
breathed heavily, for he had been nearly suffocated.
“Skippie!” at length was uttered by him, as he placed
a number of letters in Charles's hand.
“It is Skippie!” said Charles. “Never was any one so
perfectly disguised! And he comes from my father. But
I have no time now to read the letters,” he added, thrusting
them in his bosom.
“Bundle outside,” said Skippie, pointing in the direction.
“What is it? Who is it for?” demanded Charles.
“Miss Julia,” was the reply.
“Return and take charge of it, Skippie. And follow us
when we leave here to-night.”
“Leave to-night?” asked Skippie, with unwonted energy.
“Yes.”
“Good!” he said, with apparent satisfaction.
“Why?” asked Charles.
“Dead to-morrow!”
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This announcement produced, as was natural, great internal
commotion; and Hugh, knowing the shortest method
of obtaining information from his unique countryman, soon
learned that Skippie had been an auditor at the brief conference
held in Queen Esther's wigwam. The intelligence
of her diabolical design filled the breasts of the prisoners
with fierce indignation. Hugh proposed taking her life
before departing; but this was objected to as hazardous
and unnecessary. Hugh, however, was permitted to watch
the sleeping guards of Queen Esther who had been stationed
near the wigwam in readiness for the bloody work in
the morning. They were wrapped in bear-skins, and lay
under a persimmon-tree, and Skippie had been compelled
to step over some of their bodies to reach the tent. There
was, however, another place of egress prepared for such a
contingency. Nevertheless, Skippie's information was well-timed,
for the presence of the savages under the tree had
not been discovered, and the escaping party would have
stumbled upon them.
A handful of sand thrown against the tent was the joyful
signal Charles had been waiting for, and the moment he
heard it his keen knife glided noiselessly down the canvas.
He stepped out, followed by Kenton, who was to precede
him to the place where the horses had been concealed. It
was a starlight night, and the form of Julia, easily discernible,
was encircled by the arm of Charles, who led her
softly away in the direction the guide was pursuing.
Boone brought up the rear, leading the prisoners, while
Hugh and Skippie lingered behind to watch the sleeping
Senecas.
They moved in silence, or spoke in low whispers; and so
still was the night that they could hear the occupants
snoring within several of the houses they passed. They
were just opposite the last house, and supposed there was
no further danger of interruption and discovery, when a
man ran out from the hut and stumbled against Charles
and Julia. Boone's knife was uplifted, and in the act of
descending, when his arm was arrested on recognising a
well-known voice.
“Tam her! Trunk! Snoring all te time! Hello!” he
continued, when jostling Charles; and, seeing Boone's
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raised arm, cried, “Ton't! I'm Vill Wan Viggens, and—
where's my dog? Here, Vatch!”
“And, be the powers!” said Paddy, following, “do ye
take me for yer falthy cur? But I don't wonder at it.
You've been drinking. A pretty pass I've come to! A
savage mother so drunk she can't stand up, and a Dutch
daddy who don't know me from his dog! Here's yer dog
behint me. He don't know ye when ye're disguised with
sich abominable bad liquor.”
“Hush! Be silent, Paddy!” said Charles, placing his
hand on the amazed Indianized Hibernian's mouth.
“Howly Mother! Is it you, Misther Charles?” asked
Paddy, in a half whisper. “And where are ye going?
And mayn't I go wid ye?”
“Yes. Follow and be silent.”
“I'll go mit you too,” said Van Wiggens. “I'm sick of
being te husband of tat drunken old squaw.”
“Fall in and be silent,” said Boone.
When they reached the horses (and Kenton had by some
inscrutable means contrived to have not only the best animals
of the Indians, but an extra number of them collected
together) they all prepared to mount, being upward of
twenty in number, which included several prisoners who
had been captured in the West.
Simon Kenton, the tall, broad-shouldered young man,
who had been often in the hands of the Indians, and who
was beloved by them, because, like Boone, he was brave
and generous, was quite as familiar with the country on
both sides of the Ohio, and on the Scioto, as any of the
red warriors themselves. He made Paddy and the Dutchman
mount two of the supernumerary horses he had intended
to lead. Much time was consumed in extricating some of
the animals from the thicket, and Boone evinced a degree
of impatience, fearing that Kenton's eagerness to secure
horses might cost them dearly.
When every thing was properly adjusted, the cavalcade
moved off in a brisk pace in the direction of Paint Creek.
But before they had gone far they were startled by the
awful voice of Peter Shaver's jackass in the Indian town.
He brayed most discordantly, and the hills reverberated the
sound.
“Somebody's been kilt,” said Paddy; “for Pater's ass
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niver brays widout smelling blood. I hope, Misther
Charles,” he continued, in a lower tone, “it was none
of us.”
“It was not you, Paddy, nor I,” said Julia, smiling.
“Och, Blessed Vargin! and it's you, is it, Miss Julia?
I'd know yer voice the darkest night that iver shone!
And where's the t'other little swateheart?”
“One is enough, Paddy,” said Charles.
“Enough, is it? Yes, and, be the powers, it's often one
too many. And Van Waggens had one too many at home,
and he must get another! But it's glad I am to saa you
have got rid of one, and she a wild savage!”
“Hush, Paddy!” said Julia, sharply. “She is a gentle
creature, whom I love as a sister.”
“Thrue enough for you, Miss Julia! and was she not
Misther Charles's Indian sister, and won't she be yours
when you are—”
Paddy's words were arrested by a sudden commotion behind,
caused by the arrival of Hugh McSwine and Skippie,
who came up at a gallop.
“Hugh!” said Charles, gazing steadily at the excited
countenance of the Scot, for they were now crossing a
small prairie, and the stars were shining brightly, “you
remained behind. Is that not the solution of the loud
braying?”
“I did not see the ass,” said Hugh, equivocating.
“Let me see your hand, Hugh.”
Hugh held it out silently. It was covered with blood, as
was also the sleeve of his buckskin hunting-shirt.
“It was wrong, I fear! — very wrong; and we may
repent it. There can be no peace now. And they will
all join the British. I'm glad Mr. Jones determined to
escape with us. If he had remained, as was his intention
yesterday, he would have been lost. To-morrow, the first
white man they see, if it be not one of the infamous renegades,
will be tomahawked or burned at the stake. How
did you accomplish it? Who did you strike?”
“I dinna' ken their names,” said Hugh. “But my
dirk—”
“Their names. More than one, then?”
“Three. Skippie led the way. They were to fall upon
us in the morning with tomahawk and scalping-knife.
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That heated my blude. The guard set over us will never
see the dawn of day!”
“Terrible!” said Julia, leaning forward on her horse,
and striving to shut out the horrible picture from her
imagination.
“Did they alarm the village?” asked Boone, whose
quick ear had caught the purport of Hugh's words.
“They never spoke a word, mon! There was only a
whizzing gushing noise about their throats, a kick or two,
and they were as still as ever. When Hugh McSwine has
one hand on a foeman's neck, and his dirk in the other,
there are never any words or screams.”
“But the ass?”
“De'il tak the ass! I vowed to cut his throat if I met
wi' him again! But I didn't see him. He was biting the
hazel-bushes round the tent, and when he smelt the blude
he ran away squalling as if the de'il were at his heels!”
“And did he not rouse the Indians?” asked Charles.
“Skippie and I waited to see. Some did come out and
gaze in the dark. But the ass had moved some distance
from the dead men, who could tell no tales.”
“Then why should we hasten so fast?” asked Julia.
“We heard the women screaming,” said Hugh.
“Enough!” cried Charles. “Our escape has been discovered!
We cannot conceal our trail. We must fly with
the utmost speed. There can be no rest for you, my Julia,
until we pass the Ohio. I hope you can bear the
fatigue!”
“Oh yes, I can bear it,” said she.
They increased their pace to the utmost, and the unerring
guidance of Kenton kept them in the right direction.
Boone was silent during the remainder of the night, riding
by the side of Hugh and just behind Charles and Julia.
Charles, being familiar with the habits of the savages,
informed Julia that their pursuers would not start on their
trail until daylight, and could not possibly overtake them
before they reached the Ohio River, some fifty miles distant,
if they met with no delay and could keep their horses
going until the next day at noon. And Kenton, keeping
a little in advance, but within speaking distance, informed
them with a chuckle that the fleetest horses had been taken
from the Indians, and those they could not take had been
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let loose in the woods, and might perhaps follow them
without riders.
Neither Boone nor Charles, however, seemed to attach
so much importance to the agency of horses as Kenton did.
They were aware that the Indian himself could run for
days without apparent fatigue, and that he could cross
ravines which equestrians must pass round, and traverse
swamps in the direct line of march where horses, if they
did not deviate, would stick fast in the mud. Yet they did
not suppose they could be overtaken if their flight met with
no interruption. But was it not likely they would fall in
with some of the hunting-parties continually going into
and returning from Kentucky? They were certainly beset
with dangers on every hand, and it was not a proper time
to be counting gains in the item of stolen horses.
The first interruption was caused by Van Wiggens's dog,
which barked piteously at every leap, and began to lose
ground. His master said he could not leave him behind,
nor did he believe he could follow their trail. Boone
reined in his steed and fell back to where the dog was yelping,
and, leaning over the side of his horse, succeeded in
grasping poor Watch by the tail, and lifted him up before
him. The dog licked his hand in gratitude.
At early dawn Paddy begged them to stop and have
something to eat. He said Miss Julia must be suffering
with hunger, being unwilling to confess his own weakness.
But Julia declared she could not and would not take any
meat until they had reached a place of safety.
Charles, however, snatched some wild fruit as they rode
through the thickets, which sufficed both for the maiden
and himself. But Van Wiggens had an intolerable thirst,
for he had been induced to drink some of his squaw's miserable
fire-water, furnished by the British sutler. This, too,
was partially allayed by Boone, who, throwing himself under
the neck of his horse, dipped up water from the small
streams they were occasionally dashing through. The poor
Dutch Indian drank a little of this while in motion, and
spilled more, which he wept over.
About the middle of the forenoon, and when Kenton
was promising in a few hours more to show them the cliffs
of the Ohio, the party halted abruptly, most of them with
painfully-throbbing hearts. On an eminence in the prairie
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through which they were passing, and in the line of march
directly before them, they beheld a company of some forty
Indians. They seemed to be returning from a hunting
expedition, as their horses were laden with buffalo-meat.
“Will they attack us?” asked Julia.
“I think they will!” said Kenton, whose quick eye had
instantly computed their superior number. “But we can
whip 'em! I'll have a scalp for every horse they take!”
Charles perceived that the Indians were astonished at
the apparition of such a cavalcade. Most of the whites—
and they seemed themselves to have forgotten it—were
not only habited as Indians, but painted like them also.
But their mode of sitting on horseback and manner of
riding, even at the distance of several hundred yards, could
not long deceive the hunting-party as to the true nature
of their quality. Himself, however, and Kenton and
Boone, might counterfeit the Indian without liability to
detection; and so the three, after giving certain directions
to Hugh, advanced toward the opposite party.
Three of the Indians came at full gallop to meet them.
They were Senecas. In answer to their inquiry, Charles
said his men were a party of adopted prisoners going to
Kentucky to hunt buffalo.
The chief who had addressed him said all that was very
good, and asked if all the prisoners had been adopted without
running the gauntlet.
Charles said he believed some were retained for the
torture, and had been taken to Sandusky, where they
would probably be burned at the stake, as their captors
had painted them black.
The chief asked if they had not scalped and burned
“Captain Kenton, a horse-steal rascal, d— white man!”
Kenton made an involuntary movement, as if to cock
his gun, but was checked by Boone.
Charles said they had not yet decided his fate, nor
Boone's.
“Captain Boone! honest man!” said the Indian, while
Boone's grave features relaxed into a smile. “What
horse?” continued the speaker, staring in astonishment at
the noble black animal Kenton bestrode.
“One he borrowed,” said Charles, in the Seneca tongue.
The Indian flew into a violent passion, and accused them
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of lying. He said the horse was his own,—one he had left
at home for his squaw to keep in good condition. He
intended to ride him the next spring, when they invaded
the white settlements in Pennsylvania. He then ordered
Kenton to dismount.
This Kenton of course refused to do, although Boone
advised a compliance, as the only possible means of avoiding
a battle. But the next moment it was quite obvious
the surrendering of the horse would not have sufficed; for
one of the Indians had recognised Kenton, notwithstanding
his paint, as well as Boone, and, uttering the warwhoop,
wheeled away and sped round in circles. The other two
did the same, to avoid the bullets of the white men, whose
rifles were instantly thrown up to their faces. The Indians
were the first to fire, but did no injury, as they were in
rapid motion and some eighty paces distant. But Boone
and Kenton (Charles did not fire at all) were more fortunate.
The first brought his man to the ground, and the
other, as was supposed, wounded the claimant of the horse,
for he fell forward on his horse's neck and did not rise
again. The third seized his companion, who fell to the
ground, and dragged him away by the hand while his horse
was in a gallop.
The party came down from the hill at a furious pace,
yelling terribly, and the whites retreated under cover of
the sumach-bushes at the edge of the prairie.
“I've got no gun. I can't fight!” said Paddy, when
they had dismounted in the bushes.
“You can fight with your knife, mon,” said Hugh.
“And wouldn't they be sure to kill me?”
“No surer than if you were to sit down without resisting
and be scalped.”
“Murther! And I didn't have the sculp-lock taken off!”
“Here's one of my pistols,” said the Rev. Mr. Jones,
coming up from the rear. “And let us all pray for protection
and aid from above, and especially that this tender
virgin may not be harmed. Get up, you silly coward!”
he continued, bestowing a smart kick on the back of
Paddy, who had fallen on his knees. “There's no time to
be kneeling now. Pray standing at your post or lying
down with your finger on the trigger and your eye upon
the enemy. Let your hearts pray, my brethren; this is no
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time for lip-service. And remember that if the Lord of
Hosts be on our side ten thousand foes cannot prevail
against us. Be valiant, men, obedient to your leaders,
and take a steady aim!”
The Indians, seeing the effect of the fire of the whites,
and knowing Boone and Kenton were among them, although
superior in number, became very circumspect. They immediately
abandoned the prairie and plunged into the woods
bordering the opening. Their women and children were
sent out of the way or hidden in the grass, and preparations
made for an immediate assault.
Our party likewise made preparations. Boone led them
a short distance to the left, where there was the fallen
trunk of a gigantic tree, charred by the camp-fires of many
a hunting and war-party. Behind this the horses were tied
and fed, and a guard set over them, concealed in the long
grass which grew among the larger branches of the prostrate
oak. And here, too, Julia was deposited in charge
of Mr. Jones. The remainder of the party were then
skilfully disposed by their experienced leaders, so as to
make the place of Julia's concealment (the horses being
likely to tempt the Indians) a sort of ambushment, and
the most dangerous point for the enemy to approach.
When thus posted, our party, with a few exceptions, felt
impatient for the battle to begin. They knew that pursuers
were approaching, and dreaded being exposed between
two fires. The Indians, however, were not inclined
to accommodate them. They, too, were well aware that
pursuit must have been made, and by delaying the attack
their number would be augmented to an irresistible force.
An hour, which seemed half a day, thus passed, an
occasional shot only being fired by the advanced scouts,
from their places of concealment, when any portions of the
bodies of their opponents were exposed.
“Why, Mr. Kenton,” said Paddy, who had been placed
behind a beech-tree, with directions to keep his body concealed,
and fire his pistol as fast as he could load if any of
the Indians came in sight, “I say, Misther Kenton, this
ain't sic a terrible fight afther all. And this is a rigular
battle, is it? Be the powers, I'll turn Indian-fighter meself!
Be Jabers! what's that?”
Paddy having slightly exposed his coon-skin cap, the tail
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(which had been left on it for a plume) fell at his feet, and
at the same moment the sharp report of a rifle was heard
in the bushes some sixty paces distant.
Kenton motioned Paddy to fall down and pretend to be
dead. This Paddy did without hesitation, as soon as he
comprehended the fact that the Indian's ball had grazed
his head and carried away the tail of which he had been
so proud.
The Indian sprang forward to scalp his supposed victim,
and received the fire of Kenton. He fell in an open space,
clear of bushes, as he ran toward Paddy, pierced through
the brain.
“I brought him, Paddy!” whispered Kenton.
“Oh, plase don't bring him here, Misther Kenton!” said
Paddy, who lay with his face against the ground and could
see nothing.
“No, he's lying yonder in full view. He didn't kick; he
jest quivered a little and then was limber. I've seen 'em
do it before, when I got a good bead on 'em. But the
others mustn't drag him off. Now, Paddy, if you want to
show your bravery and be a great man, run there and
scalp him. I'll watch, and keep the others away till you're
done.”
“What! gore my hands wid human blood?” said Paddy,
spreading out his trembling fingers.
“No, he'll not bloody you much. Make a ring round
the scalp-lock with your knife, take the head between your
knees, and pull off the skin with your teeth.”
“Taath? Me taath?”
“Yes, that's the way they do it. I've seen it done
often.”
“Och, Mr. Kenton, I'm sick! It's a faver-and-ager
counthry. I've got a chale, and—”
“Hush!” said Kenton. “They're coming to drag him
away.”
“And ye'd 'a had poor Paddy to run right into their
jaws!”
Again Kenton's rifle spoke the doom of an Indian, and
the two lay together. Charles and Boone and Hugh
McSwine, seeing what had passed, concentrated the most
of their men near that point, knowing the Indians would
make a desperate effort to bear away their dead.
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But, as they approached, it was apparent that the enemy
had been beforehand with them. Two of the faithful Scots,
incautiously exposing themselves, were fired upon from the
little bramble-swamp beyond the fallen Indians and killed.
This success of the foe was followed by yells of exultation.
Several of them darted forward to scalp the Scots, but were
driven back by the fire of Boone and Charles, one of them
borne off by his comrades mortally wounded.
The fire now became incessant on both sides in the immediate
vicinity of the dead Indians. The Indians, however,
were the greatest sufferers. The briery thicket in
which they had collected having no trees to resist the balls
of the white men, their death-yells were heard at short
intervals. The whites were defended by trees, Paddy alone
being exposed; but, as he lay perfectly still, he was supposed
to be dead, and of course the enemy would not throw away
their fire on him.
“Don't you move, Paddy, or you're a dead man!” said
Kenton, reloading his rifle, which he had just discharged
with effect at an enormous savage who betrayed his locality
in endeavouring to aim at Boone.
“Lord!” cried Paddy, though careful not to move hand
or foot. “I hear the bullets whazzing about like bumble-baas!
That wasn't the rale battle we had at first! Now
we are fighting in earnest. Och, murther! I shall be kilt!
I'm a dead man!”
“They won't shoot a dead man, I tell you,” said Kenton.
“Be perfectly still, and you're safe. They think you're
dead.”
“And do you mane to insinuate that they can saa me
here?”
“To be sure they can—every one of 'em. And if you
try to jump behind the tree again a dozen bullets will go
through your body.”
“Murther! And if they bate us they'll sculp me for a
dead man! And my sculp-lock wasn't shaved off!”
“Be quiet!” said Kenton, having again added a victim
to his list. The last one fell in attempting to bear off the
first he had slain, who, no doubt, was a chief. “Paddy,”
he continued, ramming down his ball, “they'll hear your
voice, or see your cap move when you speak, and then
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you'll be killed, sure enough. Don't you see how they are
barking my tree?”
“No; I don't want to see it,” said Paddy, in a low
tone.
“Tam dem!” said Will Van Wiggens. “Here dey all
come togedder!”
After something like a simultaneous discharge from behind
the trees, which the enemy had drawn forth by a stratagem,—
placing their blankets on poles and moving them
to and fro in the bushes,—the whole body of savages rushed
out with brandished tomahawks, and, yelling terrifically,
charged upon the white men before they could reload their
rifles.
Some of them fortunately had pistols, and, although they
could do but little execution with them, they served to
intimidate the foremost of the enemy.
“Stand fast to your trees!” cried Boone. “If one man
runs away we shall all perish. Fight with your tomahawks
and knives—man to man, and we will conquer!”
“Give me your pistol, Paddy,” said Kenton, whose tree
was the nearest to the advancing savages.
“I can't move,” said Paddy. “Och, murther! are they
coming?”
At that moment the foremost Indian, some twenty paces
in advance of the rest, sprang forward, unconscious of the
close vicinity of Kenton, and, bestriding Paddy, stooped
down to scalp him. Just when the knife touched the skin,
and when Paddy yelled out “Murther!” the breech of
Kenton's gun descended, and the savage fell upon his
intended victim.
The rest of the Indians rushed past, Kenton himself
being forced to fly before them, until they were opposed by
Boone, McSwine, Charles, and their brave comrades, who
sprang from their trees and offered battle hand-to-hand.
The Indians faltered a moment and then retreated. They
snatched up their fallen chief who lay across Paddy's body
and bore him along. One of them strove to drag the supposed
dead Irishman by the leg, not having time to scalp
him there. But this was resisted by Paddy with all his
might. He kicked and yelled so astoundingly that the
Indian relinquished his hold and fled with the rest. And
Paddy, knowing it would be useless to counterfeit death
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any longer, sprang up and valorously fired his pistol. He
then jumped behind Kenton's tree. It was all the work
of an instant. Moments were precious when men were
loading their rifles and foes were exposed to view. But the
Indians soon vanished, bearing away their dead.
“Come on, my brave comrades!” cried Paddy, now in
advance of all the whites. “We've defated 'em. They're
retrating, the savage blackguards! And one of 'em was
astraddle of Paddy Pence! But Paddy pistholed him, the
impident blackguard! Charge, men, charge! They're
retrating!”
Paddy was not mistaken. Charles understood the purport
of the yells and whoops of the discomfited savages.
Content to recover the bodies of their slain, they were
retreating precipitately.
“Now let us make tracks ourselves,” said Kenton, leading
the way toward the horses.
“Yes,” said Boone; “we cannot be gone too soon. Our
pursuers will come up quickly, and the attack will be
renewed if we tarry.”
“Mr. Bone,” said Paddy, “did you saa only one fall
when I fired me pisthol?”
Boone made no reply.
“He's jealous!” said Paddy. “But, Misther Kenton,
you can bear witness that I fired the last gun, and that I
was the foremost man afther the inemy when they retrated.”
Kenton, too, paid no attention to Paddy, but hurried
toward the horses, now the object of his solicitude, for he
could not be induced to leave any of them (even the supernumerary
ones) behind.
“And did ye not saa it, Mr. Charles?” persisted Paddy.
“This is no time for nonsense!” said Charles. “Assist
me in placing Julia on her horse.”
And Hugh McSwine likewise turned his back on Paddy
as he approached him, and, aided by Van Wiggens, who
had behaved with perfect coolness during the conflict, succeeded
in placing the dead Scotchmen on horses before
their comrades.
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CHAPTER XIV.
THE AMBUSCADE—THE NIGHT SURPRISE—CROSSING THE
OHIO—LETTERS FROM HOME.
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The party were soon remounted, and resumed the
flight at a brisker pace than ever. Charles rode at the
side of Julia, a little in advance of the rest, and their
course was over the eminence in the plain where they had
at first discovered the Indians.
Julia was very pale, for she had seen the dead Scots
placed on the horses; and, as they still bled quite freely,
Charles directed them to be kept behind, that no traces of
their gore might be seen in their path.
“Miss Julia,” said Paddy, who had been riding just behind,
expatiating on his feats to Mr. Jones, who listened
carelessly, singing one of the thanksgiving psalms of
David, “I was the last man who shot an Indian. I was
before all the rest of our men when the savages fled away.
I was down on me face—”
“Down, Paddy?” asked Julia, in surprise.
“Yes, be jabers! down, and almost sculped! A dead
chafe was lying across me—”
“Paddy, are you really in earnest?'
“Arnest, is it? Raal arnest! Isn't it, Misther Charles?”
“That part is true,” said Charles, with a slight smile.
“Kenton had broken the Indian's head as he stooped down
to scalp Paddy, whom he supposed to be dead. And I, too,
at first supposed you were gone, Paddy, and am rejoiced
to find it was a mistake.”
“And so am I, upon me sowl! But it was me who
caused the blackguard savage to make the mistake, and
that was the raison of his death; and I may dacently say
I killed him. Yes, Miss Julia, he fell upon me, and he lay
on my stomach as heavy as a nightmare. I couldn't move
hand or fut. Then prisently the others came and lifted
him off; and one of the blackguards had the impidence to
saze me by the fut, and pull me toward the bushes to
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sculp me—och, murther!” cried Paddy, placing his hand
on his head. “But I sent him sprawling in the laves with
a kick, and he let go his holt; and I'm sure he was as pale
as ashes at the thought of a dead man kicking him. Then
I pulled up my pisthol and fired at the whole crowd o' 'em,
and that was the last gun shot off in the battle.”
“And so you were the last to fire, Paddy,” said Julia.
“The last to fire, is it? Yes—that is,—I mane,—och,
now, Miss Julia, don't be afther saying that same! And,
if it's true I didn't shoot before, I was down flat on me
face, wid no tra before me and in full view of the whole
army of savages. And didn't Mr. Kenton tell me to lie
still, and if I budged they'd raddle me with their bullets?”
“What caused you to fall, Paddy?” asked Julia, her
curiosity somewhat excited.
“Och, murther! And to-be-sure it was one of their ondacent
bullets. I was jist paaping from behint the root of
the tra, and one of the blackguards had the ill-manners to
aim his rifle at me head. The bullet, I suppose, would have
hit me atwane the eyes if I hadn't dodged. As it was, it
struck the top o' me cap, and cut off me cone-tail be the
roots!”
“And did that make you fall?”
“Didn't it? Miss Julia, you were niver shot in that
way, I know, or you wouldn't ask the question. I was
stunned, and fell down and rolled over. And the savage
who kilt me, not saaing Mr. Kenton near by, ran out to
snatch me sculp. Then Mr. Kenton missed cutting his
tail away and struck him in the forehead. Down he fell
as dead as a door-nail. And then the battle began in
arnest, fighting over his worthless corpse and over Paddy's
body! And that's the truth of it, Miss Julia, and I hope
it'll be in the London papers. I'm covered all over wid
blood, and I've jist come out of the thickest of the fight.
And here's the hill where we first saw the inemy. Murther!
Och, Lord!” cried he, darting past Charles and
Julia, and evincing the greatest terror on beholding an Indian
child crouching in the tall grass near the path.
“The poor infant,” said Charles, pausing, “has been
placed there by its mother, not supposing we would pass in
this direction.”
“Poor thing!” said Julia. “See how still it is. Paddy's
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horse has thrown dust in its face, and yet it does not
cry.”
“No,” said Charles. “Like the young partridge, it
remains in silence where its mother placed it. It is not
two years old, and yet would bite your finger if you attempted
to seize it. We will pass on. But I will assure
its mother of its safety.” And he did so, in a loud voice,
in the Indian dialect. A moment after, the mother, who
had been lying concealed only a few paces apart, in a small
chasm, sprang forward, seized the child, and fled toward
the woods.
“For shame, Paddy!” cried Julia, seeing the valorous
Indian-fighter aim his pistol at the flying woman and pull
the trigger.
“Och, it's not loaded, Miss Julia,” said he. “I didn't
know if there mightn't be others with guns and tomahawks
all around us. Misther Charles knows they can hide in
grass not an inch long. And sure you won't belave it
was the baby that made me dodge. It was the twinty
warriors I didn't know but there might be hid and aiming
at us.” And Paddy hastily rejoined the Rev. Mr. Jones,
and listened in silence to the song he had never ceased to
articulate during the incident of the Indian infant and its
mother.
“This is a specimen of life in the wild woods, Julia,”
said Charles, “such as you have heard related during winter
evenings before the cheerful fire. But you find it not so
pleasant as you anticipated.”
“If it were only relieved of its dangers—its butcheries!”
said the pale girl, with a faint smile. “Still, it would be
no sport that a poor maiden should voluntarily witness;
but captives must submit to circumstances. I hope there
will be no more slaughter. Do you think there will be
more fighting?”
“It is probable. But we shall be able to repel any
attack. I do not think they have exceeding twenty warriors
at Chillicothe capable of pursuing us. They are still
killing buffalo.”
“And Mr. Kenton, I learn, has deprived them of their
best horses. But, if twenty pursue, and unite with as
many others on the battle-ground we are leaving, still they
will greatly exceed us in number.”
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“But we shall surpass them in skill. Boone and Kenton
are equal to twenty ordinary warriors. Then there is
Hugh McSwine! Oh, Julia, he is terrible in battle, and
slays his foe with the keenest delight. Some one dear to
him must have been a victim: he seems actuated by an insatiable
thirst for blood.”
“And have you not killed some of them, Charles?”
asked Julia.
“No. I am sure I did not; and I hope it may never
be necessary for me to do so. They will follow us, however,
and probably more blood will flow. If we had none
of their horses, they might abandon the pursuit when they
learn we have been the victors in the first battle.”
“Then why not leave them?” asked Julia.
“I should have no objection. But the rest would never
consent. Yet we shall reach the river in safety. We
cannot conceal our trail; but there are many narrow
ravines suited for ambuscades, and our foes will be very
circumspect and tardy in the pursuit. And these exciting
perils, Julia, will make our narrative the more interesting
when, in old age, we sit by the blazing hearth, of winter
evenings, and describe them. You must keep a journal,
beginning with your capture and ending with our nuptials!”
The maiden blushed, but did not chide him; and she
determined, if she escaped death in the wilderness, to preserve
in writing a narrative of her adventures. This she
did in letters to Kate Livingston and in a journal which
we have been permitted to read and transcribe.
“Mercy on us! What is that?” asked Julia, hearing
an awful sound, when they had proceeded only a mile or
two from the scene of the recent conflict.
“Murther!” cried Paddy, spurring forward. “We shall
have to fight agin. I know that voice!”
“Ah!” said Julia, “I recognise it too. It is Peter
Shaver's ass, scenting the blood of the slain. Our pursuers
have arrived!”
“They will be likely to pause at the scene of the recent
action,” said Charles, “when they learn its disastrous
result. And Peter is among them. No doubt he had
sense enough to escape killing by denouncing us and offering
to join our enemies. But he will do no injury, and he
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must not be fired at if he appears within range of our
rifles. He will desert to us the first opportunity.”
A shot was heard fired by one of the party who had
lingered behind. This attracted no especial notice at the
time. But soon after Hugh McSwine and Skippie (the
latter still having the bundle he had brought from New
Jersey) came up at full gallop; and Skippie, pausing an
instant near Charles, said—
“He did!”
“Who?” demanded Charles.
“Hugh.”
“It was his gun, then. And Hugh never misses his
mark.”
“No. Got the scalp.”
Charles turned his head and beheld Hugh, some few
paces behind, stretching a scalp on a hazel-hoop as he rode
along.
“This is horrible!” said Julia, pale and shrinking, for
she comprehended all, and had even glanced at the bloody
Hugh. And, besides, the ass of Peter Shaver was still
faintly heard in the distance.
Boone came forward and pointed to some dim and distant
heights before them, which were joyfully announced as
the northern barriers of the Ohio River. There was, however,
no assurance that they could elude their pursuers and
pass the broad stream in safety. A raft would have to be
constructed; the weather must be calm, and the water
smooth, before they might venture to embark.
These difficulties and contingencies being apparent to
Boone and Kenton, a hasty consultation was held, as they
proceeded at a smart pace; and it was determined by the
majority—and Hugh McSwine, of course, voted with the
majority—that they would fight another battle. Charles
saw the necessity of repelling their pursuers, but did not
urge it.
They were now arrived at the beginning of a series of
narrow ravines running between lofty hills, and here it was
resolved to rebuke the foe. It was in the second of these
ravines the first ambuscade was formed, it being deemed
good policy to embolden their pursuers by permitting them
to pass through the first in safety.
The men were stationed in places of concealment behind
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detached rocks and under evergreen bushes, commanding
the path through the narrow defile. The Rev. Mr.
Jones, although he had no special objection to fighting the
heathen in defence of his Christian friends, yet thought it
proper, in view of his peaceful calling, to ride forward and
remain with Julia during the carnage. But, before doing
so, he made one of his characteristic prayers in presence
of the assembled party, and the Scotchmen, particularly,
responded with a loud “Amen!”
Not more than an hour had elapsed before the foremost
of the savages came in view. They had passed through
the first valley in safety, and did not seem to apprehend an
ambush in the second one. Kenton recognised the owner
of his steed in the foremost Indian, who seemed to be
pointing at the foot-prints of his horse, which he could
doubtless distinguish from the rest. They came in a long
file, not more than two abreast, and the foremost of them
were suffered to pass the concealed whites before the word
was given to fire. Then a volley, consisting, by prearrangement,
of but one-half the rifles, was discharged.
Never were savages more completely surprised. They
sprang in every direction, hoping to elude the aim of their
foes. “Ugh! ho! yough!” were uttered by some, and by
others the anglicism “Dern!” And yet, as Boone and
Kenton were among those who had reserved their fire for
the second discharge, only two or three fell under the aim
of the Scots, and one, of course, by the fatal lead of Hugh
McSwine. Most of the men had fired too high.
At the second discharge five or six fell, killed and
wounded, and the rest fled precipitately, yelling terrifically,
and without striking a blow.
The whites did not pursue them, nor even scalp their
fallen victims, but resolved without delay to resume their
march toward the Ohio River. One of the Indians, however,
(whom Kenton recognised,) had sprung forward between
them and the place where Julia had been deposited.
They had not aimed at him, because he was the foremost of
the party and separated from the rest.
This Indian soon came to where the horses had been
placed, in a little nook out of range of the rifles. Paddy
had charge of them, and, not scanning the savage closely,
supposed him to be Kenton; and they really resembled
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each other in stature, and were costumed and painted
similarly.
“Mr. Kenton,” said Paddy, “and is it all over so soon?
But what have ye done wid yer gun?” The Indian had
thrown down his rifle, and his tomahawk had fallen from
his belt as he plunged through the ravine.
“Dern!” said the Indian. “My hoss! Kenton d—
hoss-steal! A white-man tief!” and he proceeded, with all
the haste in his power, to mount one of the horses ere
Paddy could recover his presence of mind. Hearing the
whites returning, the savage dashed away, and was no sooner
out of sight, having turned an abrupt angle of rocks, than
Paddy fired his pistol; and a few moments after the Rev.
Mr. Jones's pistol was heard.
“Och, ye cowards!” cried Paddy, meeting the party
returning. “Or did you mane to let that big blackguard
savage come to me on purpose?”
“What have you done with him?” asked Hugh.
“Where's my horse?” shouted Kenton, seeing his best
steed was no longer with the rest of the animals.
“The blackguard savage mounted him! And, as St.
Pater is my judge, I thought it was you. But you naadn't
fume and fret about it, Misther Kenton! Paddy's the boy
to fax the prowling red thieves. Didn't ye hear me
pisthol?”
“I heard two,” said Charles.
“It was only the acho,” said Paddy, “which desaved
ye. I peppered him!”
“Where is he?” asked Boone.
“And where's my horse?” demanded Kenton.
“Be aisy, Misther Bone. If that is a spare rifle you
have,” (he had picked up the Indian's,) “plase let me have
it. This pisthol won't kill at wanst. I shat the varmint
through the lungs, but he won't fall for a few manutes, and
thin we'll git yer horse agin, Misther Kenton.”
Kenton uttered a fierce malediction, while the rest only
vented peals of laughter, and the whole party hastened
toward the jutting rock where the Indian had disappeared
before Paddy fired.
“Good!” cried Kenton, his face wreathed in smiles, as
he beheld his fine steed standing near the place where Julia
had awaited the issue of the strife. “And there's the
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yellow rascal who stole him,” he continued, seeing Mr. Jones
gazing at the prostrate Indian, who lay perfectly motionless
in the path, while the horse stood over him, snorting,
with distended nostrils, arched neck, and eyes flashing
fearfully.
“I told you so, be jabers!” cried Paddy, running forward.
“Didn't I say me pisthol had done his basiness?”
“I have no taste for such exercises,” said Mr. Jones;
“and I would not be sorry if it could be made to appear
that it was not my ball which smote the heathen.”
“Yer ball? Did ye say yer bullet? And did ye shoot
at him too, Mr. Jones?”
“I held out my weapon and pulled the trigger. He
fell.”
“And have you forgotten how it was when ye shot the
turkey? And was not the report of yer pisthol but the
revarberation of mine?”
“Unluckily, Paddy,” said Charles, blowing the smoke
from the barrel of the reverend gentleman's weapon, “Mr.
Jones's pistol is empty this time, and yet warm from the
recent discharge.”
“And warm is it from the racent discharge? And
mine is cowld, because it was discharged first. And are not
our bullets of the same size? And would any blackguard
Indian fall, after being kilt by a pisthol, before riding
some distance? I shall claim the credit of killing him meself,
in spite of your inganious argyments. And I'll sculp
him too!”
But when he laid hold of the Indian, finding he still
breathed, he sprang back in alarm and begged the loan of
a rifle or tomahawk to dispatch him.
“No!” said Julia, advancing, pale and tearful, “do not
imitate the savages. Rather set them an example of forbearance
and humanity!”
“He is not dead, and will immediately recover,” said
Boone, finding that the ball had glanced from his temple,
having only stunned him. This proved true; and, after
the lapse of a few minutes, the Indian was so far recovered
as to be able to ride one of the horses—a silent, sullen
captive.
The party now urged forward their steeds, and soon
entered another narrow ravine. This they passed through
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without halting, and continued their journey toward the
river.
They knew that considerable time would be consumed by
their pursuers in burying their dead, and that they would
hesitate long before plunging into the next defile. Hence
they hoped to escape further molestation.
During the afternoon they arrived on the northern bank
of the Ohio; and many of them cast longing looks at the
opposite shore, which once attained, it was the general
supposition they would be in a place of safety. But Boone
and Kenton would not consent to the prevalent desire of
the less experienced to halt and set about the construction
of a raft. There were no natural defences at that point
to enable them to keep a hostile party of superior numbers
at bay during the preparations for the passage. And, besides,
a strong wind prevailed, and the waves ran too high
for any raft to ride in security. Nor would it answer to
remain stationary until the subsidence of the gale, for
the Indians would be upon them. Kenton had been captured
once with a fine lot of horses, by thus remaining inactive
until the foe, following his trail, surprised him.
Profiting by his experience on that melancholy occasion,
Kenton led the way along the path down the river, so that
the distance between them and their pursuers might not be
diminished.
Mr. Jones expressed his fervent thanks that he had not
been made an instrument of death in the hands of his
heavenly Master, and often congratulated himself, as he
rode along, during the pauses in his song, on the recovery
of the savage.
Paddy was chagrined that he did not die, and die by his
hand. He could no longer claim the credit of the stunning
wound, as the effect of the concussion was evidently instantaneous.
But he was consoled in some measure by receiving
the Indian's rifle, which Boone loaned him, and by
the loss of Van Wiggens's dog, which had not been seen
since the battle, if battle it could be called. The latter incident
afforded him a sort of malicious pleasure, inasmuch
as the Dutchman insisted upon having seen the mark of
Paddy's ball some twenty feet high on the face of the perpendicular
cliff, and had otherwise depreciated the merits
of the Irishman.
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And, as they rode along the path, which sometimes
diverged from the river where enormous masses of rocks
had descended to the water's edge, the inquiry was passed
along the line if any one had seen Peter Shaver in the
ambuscade. No one had recognised him, but several had
heard the familiar voice of his ass after the slaughter.
Van Wiggens had no doubt Peter was among the savages,
and seemed to think that Watch, his dog, had seen him
and followed him. This was a source of hope, for he
doubted not he should some day see Peter's face again.
Thus they continued without interruption until the autumnal
sun, blood-red and magnified apparently to an
enormous size, sank down before them; for their faces were
toward the West. They now searched for one of those
impregnable fastnesses in the hills, with its natural defences
of rocks and fissures, in which to encamp for the
night; and, when it was found, the tents were erected,
the hungry permitted to eat and the weary to rest. The
wind continuing somewhat boisterous, it was the opinion of
Boone and Kenton that a passage over the river could not
be effected until the following day.
A consultation was then held in regard to the fate of their
prisoner; and as Boone and Kenton, as well as Julia, were
in favour of liberating him, it was so determined. But he
was compelled to swim across the river a few miles back, in
full view of two of his captors. Pushing a dry log before
him, he launched out in the stream, and was soon beyond
the reach of rifles. Then he yelled like an enfranchised
demon, and abused his enemies. It was feared their mercy
would be productive of only evil, as is sometimes the case
when extended to unworthy objects. However, they dismissed
this Ground-Hog (for such was his name) from their
minds.
After a hearty repast, Kenton and several of the most
active men started back on their trail to discover, if possible,
the camp-fire of their pursuers.
The scout proceeded several miles, and then ascended a
high eminence, from which they could see eastward a still
greater distance; but no fires were visible. It was possible
the pursuit had been abandoned, and such was their report
on returning.
And now a sense of comparative security pervaded the
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encampment. Julia and Charles sent for Skippie, resolved
to read the letters he had brought from their friends. But
Skippie was nowhere to be found, although he had been
seen since twilight. Doubtless, as Hugh McSwine asserted,
he was out alone, reconnoitering the country in every
direction.
Disappointed in this, Charles and Julia congratulated
themselves upon the prospect of a speedy deliverance from
their perils.
An hour after, Skippie came hastily into the tent, followed
by Paddy.
“And you won't tell me what you've sane?” exclaimed
Paddy. “But I'll hear it in spite o' ye, ye unfinished son
of a sawny!”
“Dirk!” said Skippie, exposing the handle of his weapon,
and darting a look of defiance at Paddy.
“Dirk, is it? Well, don't dirk me! I'm Misther
Charles's friend, you know, and the deadly inemy of the
blackguard savages.”
“Your news, Skippie?” said Charles.
“Twenty!” said Skippie, pointing in a westerly direction
and in the line of their march for the next day.
“Twenty Indians in front of us!” said Julia, in tones
of sadness.
“They are not our pursuers, at all events,” said Charles.
And, when Skippie had described them and the location
of their camp in his laconic but graphic manner, Boone
announced without hesitation that it was a party from Paint
Creek going over into Kentucky on a predatory expedition;
and, no doubt, the object of their attack was his station on
the Kentucky River, called Boonsboro'. He had seen their
trail, but did not mention it, as it was not fresh. They
must have been encamped several days where Skippie discovered
them, perhaps awaiting the arrival of reinforcements.
A council being held, it was resolved to attack them in
the night. They occupied an important position in the line
of march for the next day. The Indians had, no doubt,
been making preparations for crossing over into Kentucky,
and probably possessed canoes, which, if captured, would
serve an excellent purpose.
Arrangements were made to set out immediately. Skippie,
who could move with less noise than any one in camp,
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was despatched on their back trail to guard against any
sudden surprise from that quarter. They did not apprehend
immediate danger from their repulsed pursuers; but
some other roving party, led by renegade white men, might
possibly fall upon their camp.
Kenton was the guide selected to lead them against the
warriors encamped near the river. Familiar with the features
of the country, having often traversed every hill and
ravine, the few words uttered by Skippie had made him
sufficiently acquainted with the locality of the Indians. He
had himself encamped there repeatedly.
Paddy desired to guard the camp, and especially to protect
Miss Julia. But this was objected to by Charles, and
the Rev. Mr. Jones was designated for that purpose. Nor
would Kenton suffer Paddy again to have the care of the
horses. Therefore, much against his will, he had no alternative
but to march.
They set out, treading noiselessly in each other's tracks,
marching in single file, in the manner of the Indians.
Boone had drilled them so well that the whole party stepped
simultaneously, making but one sound, and that a low, dull
one, the foremost man (Kenton) having carefully removed
or softly crushed the leaves that lay in the path.
“Be jabers!” said Paddy, speaking to Van Wiggens,
who was the next man in front of him, “it would be a good
thing now to have your dog wid us.”
“Tam dem!” said Van Wiggens; “if tey hurt a hair of
my Vatch—”
“You must not speak so loudly,” whispered Charles, who
brought up the rear, stepping in the footprints of Paddy.
The moon was shining brightly, for there was not a cloud
in the sky. A long silence ensued, interrupted only by the
low sound of more than twenty feet falling softly to the
earth. And, as they drew near the smouldering embers
round which the slumbering Indians reposed in fancied
security, their progress became very slow, and their scarcely-perceptible
advance was no longer attended with any noise
which might have been detected by the keenest ear at the
distance of a dozen paces.
“Misther Charles,” said Paddy, in a low whisper, “do
you think there is ginerally as much fighting done by the
tail of a line like this as the head o' it?” He asked this
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question when a curve in the path enabled him to see the
men in front winding along like a huge serpent under the
trees, through whose boughs the rays of the moon were
streaming brightly.
“It is often the post of honour,” said Charles.
Paddy thought he would prefer a post of safety; but he
could not comprehend how the rear of the line would be
exposed to as much danger as the head of it, and he so expressed
himself. But he was informed that the whole line
would glide silently round the sleeping Indians and be
formed in the shape of a crescent.
“Plase, Misther Charles,” said he, “have me put in the
maddle,—in the bow of the moon.”
“It cannot be done now, Paddy, without danger of discovery.
You have the position you asked for, and you
must keep it. Say no more, for yonder is the enemy's
camp.”
The camp of the Indians was situated near the mouth
of a valley opening on the river. But a stream of water,
emptying into the Ohio, with its steep alluvial embankments,
was now between the sleeping Indians and their
assailants, and the latter had to pass down the brook some
twenty paces before there was any possibility of crossing
over. Kenton and Boone stood several minutes in breathless
silence opposite the slumbering Indians, the outlines of
whose forms were dimly visible, and then moved on noiselessly
toward the moss-covered trunk of an enormous tree
that lay across the stream a few paces farther below. This
tree, some eight feet in diameter, Kenton remembered distinctly,
having often passed over it. It had been lying
there, perhaps, for a century, and its damp moss and soft
exterior afforded a sure and noiseless footing.
The head of the line passed over the tree and returned
up the stream on the opposite side, diverging from it, however,
so as to enclose the enemy. Paddy shivered with
dread when he saw the foremost of the men thus counter-marching
and closely surrounding the unconscious savages.
It was a moment of painful suspense. Charles could distinctly
hear poor Paddy's heart palpitating violently when
they were midway on the huge trunk and the word to halt
was whispered back along the line. A wolf had crept up
to the smouldering fire and snatched a bone, with which it
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sprang away growling. Several of the Indians moved and
uttered some words, but did not lift their heads, for they
recognised the sound and were familiar with the prowling
habits of the animal. It is probable the consciousness of
the proximity of the wolf served to lull them; for it was
not likely an enemy could be near when the ravenous beast
was in their midst. None but Boone and Kenton could
have approached so noiselessly; and the Indians did not
suppose those renowned and dangerous foes were in the
vicinity.
The slumberers being composed, the sign was made for
the men to resume their cautious approach. But, when a
single additional step had been taken, another pause was
ordered. An owl flapped up from the feet of Boone, where
he had been assailing the eyes of a deer's head thrown
aside in the bushes. It was one of the largest specimens
of those birds of ill omen; and it now hooted loudly,
perched on a bough immediately over the prostrate Indians.
“Och, murther!” said Paddy.
Charles reached forward and placed his hand on Paddy's
mouth.
Several of the Indians stirred again and uttered incoherent
words. But the owl was a familiar bird, and,
supposing he had been alarmed by the wolf, they slept
again.
Boone and Kenton, having reached the designated point,
only awaited the closing up of the rear of the line to begin
the slaughter. Their guns were at their shoulders, their
knives loosened in their sheaths, and each had selected
his victim for the supposed indispensable sacrifice.
But when Will Van Wiggens, who, from his corpulency,
was the heaviest man of the party, made his next step
midway of the tree, the huge rotten trunk sank down suddenly,
precipitating the men, with a thundering sound and
a mighty splash, into the water and mud beneath!
So sudden, so unlooked-for, so ludicrous, was this
event, that the men who aimed their rifles, standing within
a few feet of the heads of the Indians, became irresistibly
convulsed with laughter, and fired without effect. The Indians
escaped without injury. They disappeared in the
bushes, their ears assailed only by the sounds of immoderate
laughter! But they fled away, leaving their guns
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behind, amazed at such ill-timed merriment, and believing
themselves beset by evil spirits.
“Murther!” cried Paddy.
“Tam it!” shouted Van Wiggens, floundering in the
quicksand. The wolf howled from the summit of a cliff.
The owl was mute, his glaring eyeballs fixed in astonishment.
“Oh Lord! Don't sculp me! I'll surrinder!” continued
Paddy, as Charles succeeded in dragging him out
of the stream by the heels.
“Open your eyes,” said Charles, inexpressibly diverted.
“I can't saa wid 'em! They're full of mud! Oh,
don't hit me on the head, brave Misther savage! I've been
adopted meself, and belong to a dacent family. Me mither
is Diving Duck, and—is it you, Misther Charles?” said
he, opening his eyes. “Upon me sowl, I thought I was
draming! Ye see, I was shocked by the fall, and me
sinses was wandering. Don't mind me hasty words, if ye
plase, Misther Charles. And I hope we have put to rout
the nasty blackguards. Have we kilt 'em all?”
“Not one remains to hurt you, Paddy,” said Charles,
who still heard the distant yells of the flying enemy.
“And have we kilt 'em all?”
“Tam dem! Not a single von!” said Van Wiggens,
who had extricated himself and learned the result.
After the prolonged laughter had in some measure subsided,
a search was made for canoes, and several were
found tied in the mouth of the creek. These they took
possession of, and, placing the arms of the Indians in them,
left a guard to watch until all the baggage could be removed
thither from the camp. The wind had ceased its
violence, and, as the surface of the Ohio was as smooth as
a mirror, they determined to cross over early in the
morning.
They were met, however, on their return to the camp,
by Skippie, who, in unusual excitement, briefly informed
them that their pursuers were advancing, led by Girty,
who had joined them after the ambuscade. He said they
were within three or four hours march of them, approaching
cautiously, and apparently resolved to make a desperate
struggle before permitting the fugitives to escape with
their horses.
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“I'll have all the horses in Kentucky in less than an
hour!” said Kenton.
“And I'll see that the people get over,” said Boone.
“We are safe now, my young friend,” he continued, addressing
Charles, “at least for some days to come.”
“True, sir,” said Charles, quickening his pace, and with
difficulty keeping at the side of Boone, whose giant strides
usually impelled him forward beyond his companions;
“and I am extremely thankful for it.”
Julia seemed pleased to learn that the enterprise against
the Indian encampment had resulted without bloodshed,
and the patriotic Baptist gave thanks for the easy victory,
not doubting the hand of Providence had shaped the expedition
and produced the bloodless end. The great trunk
over which multitudes had been passing from time immemorial,
and upon which numbers had stood that night,
seemed to have fallen precisely at a juncture admirably
adapted to facilitate the escape of the Indians. A little
sooner or later, and human lives would have been sacrificed.
Such were the deductions of Mr. Jones and the maiden.
But Hugh McSwine and Will Van Wiggens ascribed the
escape of the savages to the devil, who had first assumed
the form of a wolf and then an owl.
No time, however, was lost in such idle speculations.
The maiden was soon mounted, and the whole party pushed
on toward the river with all the expedition in their power.
And when Julia reached the scene of the recent accident
Kenton's voice was heard urging the horses into the
stream. It was a frosty night, though calm, and the
animals, plunging and snorting, evinced their reluctance to
swimming. They were nevertheless constrained to submit,
and were soon gliding toward the Kentucky shore.
Julia was placed in one of the canoes and rowed over by
Charles. At every stroke of his oar the poor girl's spirits
rose, and her eyes sparkled in unison with the glittering
drops that fell from the oars in the moonlight.
They spoke of their friends and homes in New Jersey,—
of Charles's Indian mother and sister, whom they loved
and pitied, but did not regret being separated from them,—
of the beautiful country and pleasant climate they were
about to enter,—and of the means of returning thence to
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their Eastern abode. Not one word was uttered of their
deep and ineradicable love. It was too sacred for words—
too manifest to be questioned.
The horses were soon landed in safety. The event was
announced by three loud huzzas from Kenton; and, striking
a light, his locality was marked by a great bonfire on
the southern shore.
McSwine and Van Wiggens were the last to embark;
and after entering their canoe they lingered under the
clustering boughs of the trees that hung over the water,—
the one hoping to add another victim to his catalogue and
the other watching for his dog. Nor did they wait very long
before the pursuing party came in view upon their trail,
and Hugh had the satisfaction of putting an end to the
existence of another human being. The one he had killed
came to the bank, after the discovery that the fugitives
were beyond his reach, and gazed in disappointment at
Kenton's great fire, in the broad glare of which the smoking
horses were plainly visible. He stood within six paces
of Hugh's muzzle, and fell, without a groan, into the deep
water.
But the discharge of McSwine's rifle was followed by a
rush in that direction, and the bloodthirsty Scot became
aware of his danger. He could not now leave the sheltering
willows without being seen and fired upon; nor could
he remain long concealed from their view where he was.
So he recharged his gun, and determined to have another
victim before he fell, if such was to be his end. But the
Indians, fearing an ambush, kept themselves hidden, in
readiness, however, to fire upon any canoes that might
push out from under the clustering willows.
“Dere he is!” said Van Wiggens, in a whisper, hearing
a dog yelp. “Dat's Vatch! I know his cry. Let me
out, and I'll vistle for him.”
“What, mon!” said McSwine, “lose your life for a dog?
I dinna' ken how much your life is worth, but I value mine
at a price aboon that.”
“Dere he is! It's Vatch!” continued Van Wiggens,
hearing a dog whining distressfully on the bank, and afterward
seeing him indistinctly through the intercepting
boughs.
“It won't do, mon!” said Hugh; “we maun awa' from
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this. They're cooming down the creek. Lift your gun
and we'll fire thegether.” They did so, and under cover
of the smoke from their rifles, which descended upon the
water, and during the momentary consternation produced
among the Indians, (for two more of them had fallen, one
mortally and the other severely wounded,) McSwine made
several vigorous strokes of the oars, which caused the
canoe to glide out rapidly from the shore. “Noo fa' doon
on yer face, mon!” he continued, setting the example to
his companion, and knowing that the impetus he had given
the light bark would soon carry it beyond the reach of the
enemy's balls. But, before attaining that distance, the
yelling savages sent a leaden shower after it. The water
was ripped up around them, and the frail canoe was perforated
in several places, but its occupants fortunately
escaped without serious injury. Van Wiggens was slightly
scratched on the most prominent portion of his body, his
corpulency preventing an entire concealment of it.
McSwine and Van Wiggens, upon landing, were much
applauded. But, when conducted to the great fire, upon
which an enormous quantity of wood and brush had been
piled, as if an illumination had been the design, poor Van
Wiggens's spirits sunk again upon hearing the melancholy
howl of his dog on the opposite side of the Ohio. He
ran to the water's edge and called to “Vatch” to swim
over; but in vain, as the dog either would not, or was not
permitted to obey him.
Then the ears of the whole party were saluted with a
familiar sound. This was the deep intonation of Peter
Shaver's ass. Upon scenting the blood, he brayed forth
his sense of the horrid deed upon the solemn midnight air;
and the melancholy reverberations rumbled from shore to
shore up and down the river.
This was succeeded by nine lusty cheers from the whites,
while the furious savages made the night more hideous
with their demoniac yells. The river was some six hundred
paces wide, and at that distance Kenton could easily
make himself heard and understood. And so he not only
boasted of the number of horses he had captured, but
ostentatiously paraded them in view of their recent owners.
(Nevertheless, some of them had been stolen from the
whites in Pennsylvania by the Indians.) He not only
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exhibited the horses, but descanted on their superior qualities,
and pointed at the deep shoulders, the broad forehead,
and clean limbs, of the steed which had belonged to
Ground-Hog, whom he said he would scalp the next time
he fell into his hands. Then an impromptu dance of victory
followed, in imitation of one of the exultant ceremonies
of the Indians, at which Charles smiled but faintly,
for he thought no good could result from thus wantonly
exasperating the enemy.
And when it was over, Simon Girty, standing on the
opposite shore near a fire he had kindled, and in the light
of which, under the shadow of an overhanging tree, he
could be recognised, said, in a loud voice, “War is now
declared! There are not one hundred white men in Kentucky.
We'll see you again; you steal horses, and huzza
over it before the faces of their owners!”
“Shut up, you renegade traitor!” answered Kenton.
“The blackest nigger is a gentleman at the side of Simon
Girty! I'll change my name from Simon to Sam, and call
my mangy old sheep-killing cur `Simon'—Simon Girty!”
“Ah, Kenton,” said Girty, “such is your gratitude!
I saved your life, and thus you thank me. Very good!
I will be the wiser next time!”
Kenton was silent for several minutes. It was known
that Girty had truly interposed and saved him from being
tortured at the stake.
“I don't deny it, Girty,” said he; “and I thank you
for it. But I have twice spared your life since then, when
you were within reach of my rifle; and I am bound in
honour never to kill you, if I can help it. But I owe you
nothing. You lead the savages in their attacks, and they
slaughter our women and children,—your own people, and
perhaps your own kin. I must defend them, and if you
should fall by my hand it will be no fault of mine. Kentucky
is my home, and it shall be my grave,* before I leave
it at the bidding of you and your baby-murdering savages.”
Kenton said no more, but sought the repose so much
needed after the exciting scenes he had passed through.
Nevertheless, the eyelids of Charles and Julia were not
oppressed by slumber. They eagerly broke open the
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letters from home brought by Skippie. The first one perused
was from Mr. Schooley. It ran as follows:—“Esteemed
Julia:—If this should reach thy hands, thee will be informed
that thy guardian and friends have been sorely grieved at
thy capture and at the supposed privations thou hast been
exposed to in the wilderness; and thou wilt learn that
it is not credited by thy guardian and others that the Indians
were the authors of thy abduction; but we think it
was the work of thy pretended friend, the rebel—”
“That must be me,” said Charles.
“How could he be so much deceived?” said Julia, a flush
of deep indignation overspreading her forehead.
“He is not deceived, Julia,” replied Charles.
“What?”
“He is well convinced I had no agency in it.”
“He certainly would be, if he knew all. But what does
he say further? Yes,” she continued, reading:—“Rebel,
Charles Cameron. But I have sent £100 to Governor
Hamilton for thy redemption. And if thee will say so
to any of the Seneca or Mohawk chiefs, they will conduct
thee to Canada, where thou wilt be ransomed; and I have
requested them to send thee by a safe guard to New York,
which thee should be rejoiced to learn is now held by the
army of George, our liege lord and sovereign; and from
thence thou wilt be permitted to pass with a flag through
the rebel army to thy home, where thou wilt be received
with affection. The £100 was truly thy money, upon
which thou wert entitled to interest, and which, with other
matters of business, we will adjust when thou returnest
hither. Mary sends her loving greeting to thee; and she
sends thee divers articles of apparel which thee will probably
stand in need of. And now I will repeat to thee
the great danger thou wilt incur by retaining thy partiality
for the rebel youth. The British army is soon to possess
all of New Cæsarea, (New Jersey,) New York, and Philadelphia;
and thee must be aware that when the rebellion is
put down its adherents will be subjected to forfeitures and
other pains and penalties. So, if thee should commit thyself
with the young man, it will be out of my power to
serve thee. The whole of the fine estate left by thy father
will be lost, and thou wilt be a beggar, mourning over the
execution of thy unworthy lover.”
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“I shall read no further!” cried Julia, throwing the
letter into the fire. Then, tearing open another, she read
as follows:—“Esteemed Julia, I pine for thy return. I
would have followed thee, and remonstrated with thy abductors,
but it was necessary to secure the harvest which is
to supply us with bread.”
“Richard loves good eating as well as his sweetheart,”
said Charles.
“Oh, better!” said Julia. “And thou knowest, besides,”
she continued, reading, “it hath been decreed in
the rebel legislature that all those who abandon their lands
shall not possess them again. I would take no part in the
awful conflict. I am a loyal subject; but I would not fly
from my home. I am a non-combatant, and cannot
abandon our society in conscience or for interest. I hope
thee will return and attend the meetings. If thou wilt, I
will agree to have our nupitals published—
“That will do!” said Julia, laughing heartily, and likewise
consigning the epistle to the flames.
Charles then read a brief letter from his father, charging
him to take care of himself and to remain true to the
cause of the tyrant's enemies. He said it was probable
the armies and fleets of the usurper would seem to prevail
at the commencement of the conflict, but that the cause of
justice would triumph in the end. France was secretly
favouring the Revolution, and would, before its termination,
become an open ally of America. He charged his son to
suffer no uneasiness on his account. There were men
anxious to effect his capture, set on, he believed, by Mr.
Schooley, for he was in correspondence with the British,
and had already caused some beeves to be driven to them
on Staten Island: but they would not succeed. His few
Scots remaining with him were vigilant, and his little fortress
impregnable. Besides, it was believed by many,
since he escaped burning, that he bore a charmed life.
His health was good, and his hours were pleasantly passed
over the pages of Shakspeare and the productions of other
sons of genius. Commanding him sacredly to guard the
captive maiden from every harm, he concluded by imploring
his Maker to spare his son for the comfort of his declining
years.
Charles then, his eyes suffused with tears and his bosom
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swelling with reverence and affection for his parent, would
have prevailed on Julia to seek the refreshing repose he
fancied she stood very much in need of. But he knew not
the extent of the capacity of the sex for prolonged watching,
and she merely smiled at his solicitude and declared
that no slumber would visit her eyes if she were to lie down;
but she would be silent while he slept, and guard his peaceful
repose. This he objected to, and begged her to read the remaining
letter,—an epistle from Kate Livingston, marked
“Liberty Hall, near Elizabethtown Point.” It began thus:—
“Oh, my dear Julia! I have just learned, by a letter from
Mr. Cameron, brought to my father by the dumb but faithful
Skippie, that you have been seized by the Indians and carried
a captive into the wilderness! But the letter says a
great Indian-fighter, named Hugh McSwine, and a band
of Scots, are in pursuit, and will certainly overtake your
captors. This is startling intelligence, indeed, and distressing,
though relieved somewhat by the comfortable assurance—
which is sanctioned by the prophetic looks and decisive
gestures of Skippie—that you will soon be restored to
your friends. And Skippie, in two words, has told me to
write this letter, making me understand, I scarcely know
how, that it will certainly be delivered into your hands.
He sets out on his return in the morning, and I am resolved
to write all night!”
“Do you hear that, Charles?” said Julia.
“Yes. Noble, generous Kate! Read on, Julia, and I
will replenish the fire. She employed a whole night in its
composition, and it should be read at such a time as this, in
the profound depths of the forest.”
“In the first place, then, dearest Julia,” continued the
letter, “let me beseech thee to be cheerful, and hope for a
speedy deliverance, if thou art not already delivered whilst
thy sweet eyes are tracing these scarcely-legible lines,
blotted by my tears!”
“And she bids me be cheerful!” said Julia.
“Glorious Kate! Read on,” said Charles.
“But, Julia,”—thus the letter ran,—“I, too, need the
kind sympathy of friends. The British general has offered a
large reward for the capture of my father, and it is said
that assassins have been engaged to take his life! Several
times we have been forced to fly, upon the landing of
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nocturnal expeditions. And it is averred the Quakers do not
hesitate to sell them cattle, and deny having such property
when applied to by the Americans, who are without gold.”
“Once the enemy surrounded our house, calling upon
the governor to surrender. Fortunately, my father was
away. Yet they searched the house, but offered me no indignity;
for they were accompanied by a gentlemanly
young ensign, who pledged his word I should sustain no
injury. Finding my father had escaped, they resolved
to seize his papers, as he was known to be in correspondence
with Washington. And, truly, many letters
from Washington, and details of future plans deeply affecting
the cause, as well as several secret resolutions of Congress,
were at that moment in the house! But your wild
Kate's wit did not forsake her. The papers were locked in
the gig-box, then lying in the hall. The box was seized,
and the point of a bayonet inserted in the lock, when I
rushed forward, and—and what do you suppose? Oh, Julia,
I told a deliberate falsehood, for which I can be forgiven.
I declared the box contained portions of my private wardrobe,
and appealed to the gallantry of the young officer to
protect them from exposure; and if he would do so I promised
to show them where my father's papers were kept.
He placed a guard over the box and followed me into the
library, where he seized the old musty law-papers, which I
have often heard my father declare no mortal could ever
unravel. He did not pause to examine the pleas, affidavits,
declarations, (which, you have heard, are sometimes
false and worthless,) but hastened away with his treasure to
the barge, as if in fear of being intercepted. He bade me
a very polite adieu, however, and hoped we should meet
again. And I hope so, truly, after we shall have gained
the victory; for I would thank him for his courtesy. A
few hours after this happened, my father returned, and,
upon learning what had taken place, he embraced your
lying Kate and uttered some of his drollest flatteries
“Oh, Julia, I have seen General Washington! He dined
at the Hall one day; and, although almost every one
thinks his chances desperate, he seems cheerful. He is
certainly the most amiable and unoffending man I ever saw.
How he can be a general and kill his enemies is beyond
my comprehension. He is good-looking too,—tall, straight,
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and his cheeks tinged with the healthful red. It has been
maliciously hinted that his colour comes from the bottle, but,
I dare say, without foundation. He has never indulged immoderately,
and no one ever heard of his being intoxicated.
“And General Wayne was with him. He, you know, is
called the `Little Mad Anthony,' and swears like a trooper,
sometimes. But his whole conversation was on religion;
and, next to their pay and their rum, he said the soldiers
required good chaplains. And then he told many anecdotes
of the Rev. David Jones, a Baptist preacher, now
among the Indians, whom he is extremely anxious to have
with him. If you meet with this Mr. Jones, tell him his
presence is desired in the camp of `Mad Anthony.'
“What shall I do? I did intend to fly to you at the
Jenny Jump, and live in Hope.* But, since you have been
abducted, it cannot be a place of security. However, I presume
the handsome Anglo-Indian chief is near you, which
may serve to keep your spirits out of the depths of despair.
I suppose I must remain where I am—between two armies,
or, at least, subject to the visits of both. I would be happy
if you were with me; and my father charges me to send
you a special invitation to make our house your permanent
abode when you return from your delightful tour in the
wilderness. Keep a diary, Julia.”
After filling several pages with the domestic affairs of
the family, interesting only to Julia, Kate concluded abruptly,
saying:—“The day is dawning, and we hear cannon
at the Point. The people are running in every direction.
I see old Molly Ketchup driving her cow past the orchard
toward the woods. She limps, but does not appear to lag.
What can the matter be? I've learned it! The British
are landing! Lord Cornwallis is coming at the head of
some 12,000 men. Pa has been in, and informed me that
I must be prepared to leave in fifteen minutes. Farewell,
Julia! There! A cannon-ball has knocked down one of
the chimneys. God bless us!
Kate.
“P. S.—I am now at a cabin in the hills, and Skippie
will wait for me to add a few lines. They did not burn
the Hall, as we supposed they would; and, as we are in
sight of it, we begin to hope our eyes may not be shocked
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by smoke and flames issuing from the darling old homestead.
I am sure that either General Howe or Lord Cornwallis
must be occupying it. Just to think of such a thing:—
eating at our table and sleeping in our beds, while we are
fugitives, depending on the charity of Molly Ketchup's
cow! But we are cheerful; and pa says the American
army—rabble I call it, just now—is marching hitherward,
and will interpose between us and the enemy..... Did
you know that they have bestowed on father the nickname
of Flintface? He is called by that title all over the Colony,
because, in his last message to the Legislature, he said,
`We must set our faces like flint against dissoluteness and
corruption.'.... Another commotion! A foraging-party
of the enemy! Oh, what screams at the hut in the valley!
It is poor Molly Ketchup. They are driving away her
cow! Adieu. Kate.”
eaf622n4* Hope is the name of a village near the Jenny Jump Mountain.
When Julia ceased reading, the dawn was apparent in
the east. Charles heaped fresh wood on the fire, and prevailed
on her to sleep until the breakfast should be prepared.
He knew that the meat for her repast was then
living and would have to be found and killed; so she
would, in all probability, have ample time for refreshing
slumber. He likewise sought repose himself at the side of
the deeply-breathing Mr. Jones, who sometimes uttered
prayers in his sleep, but more frequently sang snatches of
the Psalms of David.
It was a calm, frosty morning, rosy with the deep red
rays of an autumnal sun in what is termed the Indian
summer. Boone and Kenton rose perfectly refreshed.
“I don't know how you feel, Mr. Boone,” said Kenton,
stretching back his broad shoulders, “but I am comfortable.
I can breathe freely on the glorious soil of Kentucky; and
the climate is a thousand times better than it is over the
river yonder.”
“The soil and climate are well enough, Simon,” said
Boone, sighing, “and there's plenty of game. But it
makes me unhappy to see so many people coming to cut
the trees and shoot the buffalo and deer. If you and I
could only live here alone, I wouldn't ask a better paradise.
No matter! When neighbours get too thick, Daniel Boone
can go farther west.”
“I like having enough neighbours to keep back the
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Indians and to sell horses to,” said Kenton. They then
disappeared in the cane-brake in quest of game for breakfast,
and, before many minutes had elapsed, the sharp reports
of their rifles were heard.
eaf622n5* Kenton, we believe, died in Ohio but a few years since.
CHAPTER XV.
A “BAVER”— PADDY SHOT—A RATTLESNAKE—THE BLUE
LICKS—SHOOTING BUFFALO—BOONE'S STATION—THE INDIAN
KING'S OFFER DECLINED.
“It's a baver!” said Paddy, in reply to Van Wiggens,
who, upon awaking from his troubled slumber, and hearing
the report of a gun on the river-bank, had walked in that
direction. Paddy, as he answered, was endeavouring to
take a steady aim at the “varmint,” which, most singularly
for a beaver, did not sink beneath the surface, but persisted
in its efforts to ascend the low embankment.
“Let me see!” said Van Wiggens, cocking his gun and
peeping over. “Tam your Irish eyes!” he cried, a moment
after; “if you shoot him I'll kill you! He's a dousand
dimes better as you!”
“What! Isn't it a baver?” asked Paddy, upon hearing
a low whine.
“Baver, de teiffel! It's my Vatch!” cried Van Wiggens,
dropping his rifle and sliding down into the water,
unmindful of the chilling bath, and hugging the poor shivering
animal in his arms. “Poor Vatch!” he exclaimed,
in broken tones of pity and affection; “you've been swimming
all night to reach your master, who has nobody else
to love since Mrs. Wan Viggens sold herself to der teiffel.
And de savages nearly starved you, Vatch! See how little
your pelly is! And de tammed fool Irishman,” he continued,
in tears, “has been shooting at you for a baver, as
he calls it. Come, Vatch! you shall have blenty of my
breakfast before te hot fire.” Still holding the grateful
dog in his arms, Van Wiggens ascended the embankment
and strode toward the fire, while Paddy sat down on a log
and gazed after him.
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Paddy continued to sit there, enjoying the fumes of the
broiling venison, and gradually yielding to the exhilarating
influences of such a lovely morning in so genial a climate,
when, lifting his head, he saw the smoke of a gun just discharged
on the opposite side of the river
“What are the blackguards afther now?” said he, soliloquizing,
as he beheld a dozen savages on the bank gazing
at him. A moment after, and simultaneously with the report,
a leaden ball struck the log on which he sat and just
between his knees. He was not at first aware of the nature
of the messenger, although he felt a stinging sensation
from the particles of lead radiating on the hard surface of
the wood. He gazed a moment at the blue spot between
his legs, and, becoming conscious of having been made the
target of the marksman across the river, fell down suddenly,
and screamed “Murther!” so loudly and repeatedly
that many of the men came running in that direction.
The Indians witnessing this scene yelled with delight,
not doubting that one of their foes had fallen.
“Take care!” said Boone, standing over Paddy with an
upraised club. “If you stir hand or foot, you'll be bitten!”
And the next moment the club descended, and crushed an
enormous rattlesnake within a few inches of Paddy's head.
“Murther! murther! murther!” cried Paddy, rolling
away with great power and velocity.
“Stand up, mon! Ye're not dead yet, and ye were
not born to be shot, droowned, or poisoned,” said Hugh
McSwine.
“Och, Mr. Bone,” cried Paddy, “I thought these ugly
bastes went into their howls when the frosts came!”
“So they do,” said Boone. “This fellow was going to
the cliff yonder, but stopped to sun himself on the warm
side of the log.”
“And sure I was doing that same thing meself! But it
wasn't the baste that made me cry out.”
“Why should you holler murder for a snake?” said
Kenton. “Why not kill 'em and be done with it?”
“Och, it was the bullet!”
“Bullet?” repeated several.
“Yes, I'm shat! The baste made me forgit it! Yes,
I'm shat! See here!” and, unwrapping his leggins, Paddy
exhibited several slight punctures and bruises. He then
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pointed to the blue marks on the log, and described the
attitude in which he had been sitting.
The whole party, who had heard the rifle, laughed
heartily at Paddy's expense.
“That was close grazing,” said Kenton, “and it would
have given a black eye. He must have aimed at the tops
of the trees.”
This incident over, the party, after a hearty repast, set
out in the direction of Boone's station. They followed a
broad buffalo-trail which led to the mineral springs afterward
known as the Blue Licks.
The climate seemed to have a most extraordinary effect
upon the spirits of all. Kenton was continually leaping
up, hallooing, and letting off some hunter's joke that produced
laughter. Boone's eyes had a bright, merry look.
Several of the prisoners who had been captured in Kentucky,
and among them a hale, hearty fellow named Chapman,
had a propensity for crowing.
“Foo! Vat's dat schmells so?” exclaimed Van Wiggens,
who rode a short distance in advance.
“The mineral springs,” said Charles. “Our horses have
been for some time pricking forward their ears and snuffing
the breeze. And will we not find buffalo there?” he continued,
addressing Boone.
“Certainly. Don't you see the fresh sign? And we
must kill a supply for the winter.”
A profound silence ensued as they proceeded, and all
gazed in admiration at the most lovely country they had
ever beheld. The climate was truly delightful, the soil
fertile, and the surface pleasantly diversified with hill and
valley, woodland and prairie. It teemed with game of
every description; and hardly a minute passed that some
one of the party did not behold buffalo, elk, bear, or
deer.
Kenton led a number of men in advance of the rest to
the Licks, and soon their guns were heard dealing death
among the buffalo. Those huge animals had collected that
autumn in vast multitudes. They had gone thither from
all the adjacent countries for hundreds of miles round,
meeting as if by concert at a common rendezvous; and it
was feared they would soon be followed by the Indians,
their natural proprietors. Therefore, Boone advised a
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speedy departure from the vicinity. A few hours would
suffice for the slaughter of buffalo.
Boone remained with Charles and Julia, having no disposition
to partake of the sport. His thoughts dwelt upon
his family, who had been left at the settlement on the Kentucky
River, and from whom he had been separated many
months. He would soon see them if they still remained at
the station. But who could tell, in a time of such vicissitudes,
what might have happened?
“Mr. Bone! Mr. Bone!” cried Paddy, who, with the
rest, drew rein and listened to a strange rumbling sound
which appeared to shake the very earth, “what is that?
Is it a harrycane?”
“Follow me!” cried Boone, with an excited countenance.
And they had no sooner paused under the boughs of a
dense grove of giant sugar-maples, several hundred paces
west of the great trail, than an immense drove of the wild
cattle came rushing past. It was a torrent which would
have swept through an opposing army.
“Merciful heaven!” cried Julia, as the astounding apparition
swept by.
“There is no danger here,” said Charles, breathing
freely. “Mr. Boone has saved us.”
“And ye're quite sure we're saved?” asked Paddy.
“Then, be the powers, I'll have a crack at 'em!” And,
after a hasty aim, he fired at the moving mass of animals,
the nearest of them being only some fifty paces distant.
“Howly Vargin!” he cried, “I've kelt a dazen at layst.
Saa how they tumble over!” He had, indeed, by a lucky
shot, brought one of them down, and many of the rest fell
over him. Several, untouched by Paddy's lead, were
trampled under-foot and never rose again. And when the
thundering mass had vanished, it was with great exultation
that Paddy claimed them all as the extraordinary product
of his fire.
Resuming the broad buffalo-trail, the travellers approached
the Licks. In the immediate vicinity of the
springs the earth seemed to have been scooped out or trodden
down many feet in depth, for hundreds of paces in
circumference; and this had been done by the animals
resorting thither for ages.
The hunters had already collected a vast number of
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tongues; and these, with the best of the skins, made quite
as heavy a burden as the horses could bear.
About the middle of the afternoon of the second day
after crossing the Ohio, the party paused on the summit
of a high cliff on the northern bank of the Kentucky River.
With a palpitating heart, Boone gazed in silence at the
narrow tract of bottom-land on the opposite shore. Then,
seeing the smoke curling up from the cabins, his face beaming
with delight, and every nerve quivering with pleasurable
excitement, he uttered a loud, clear halloo upon the
still air, which was borne over the surface of the bright
water. After a brief pause it was answered from the other
side by a voice Boone seemed to recognise; and this was
succeeded by a dozen others. Though long given up as
dead, Boone's halloo was known. Whoops and cheers
were soon uttered in quick succession, and the people were
seen running about in great commotion.
“Thank heaven, I see women and children!” said
Julia.
“But not mine! not mine!” said Boone, straining his
eyes, with his hands on his forehead. “I see my brother,
two sons, but no wife, no daughter! Gone! They would
have known my voice better than the rest. Not there!
no, they are not there!”
“You should not suppose they have fallen into the hands
of the enemy,” said Julia, witnessing his emotion with concern,
“since the rest seem to have escaped.”
“No,” said he, recovering his self-possession, “I have
no fear of that. I know what has happened. They supposed
me dead, and returned to North Carolina. No
matter. They have not taken the fort and the country
with them, and I can bring them back.”
Kenton, having assembled the horses and men in full
view of the little settlement, gave a signal, and the air was
rent with cheers. The people on the opposite side of the
river seemed almost wild with joy, and sent over all the
canoes they could command; and our party, following the
winding path down to the water's edge, were met and rapturously
greeted by the FIRST SETTLERS OF Kentucky.
And it may be said that the example of extending a hearty
welcome to a returning friend or a wandering stranger,
practised by those adventurous pioneers, has never since
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been forgotten by their noble and generous descendants.
Julia and Charles, and all the weary fugitives, were now
in a place of comparative security. Mr. Jones preached
that night to a congregation of not less than sixty men,
women, and children.
Among the women in the fort, or settlement,— for it
hardly deserved the name of the former,— were Mrs.
McGary, Mrs. Logan, Mrs. Todd, Mrs. Miller, Mrs. Hogan,
Mrs. Harrod, Mrs. Bryant, Mrs. Trigg, Mrs. Bulger, Mrs.
Harland, Mrs. Harrison, Mrs. Calloway, and others, from
whom have descended some of the best specimens of humanity,
whether in the field or in the forum, that have
illustrated our history. Their husbands were absent building
small forts or block-houses—called stations—in other
portions of the country.
Nor was Boone quite correct in his conjecture. His
wife, it was true, with some of the younger children, had
returned to North Carolina. His favourite daughter remained,
and had been prevented from coming forth on
hearing his voice by an attack of the ague,—a disease which
had periodically assailed her before leaving Carolina. But
she was quite well the next day, and succeeded in cheering
the heart of her affectionate father.
Skippie's bundle was now opened, and Julia overwhelmed
him with thanks for the timely addition to her
wardrobe.
The men made but little change in their dress, as all the
hardy pioneers were habited in buckskin hunting-shirts;
and, with the exception of their faces, which they washed
occasionally, their resemblance to the Indians was not very
remote. They wore moccasins, leggins, and, in cold weather,
blankets, and each had his rifle, tomahawk, and knife.
With the latter they carved their meat or scalped an
enemy as occasion required.
After sojourning in the fort some days in perfect repose,
those who had no intention of becoming citizens of the
country began to make preparations for returning to their
distant homes. But these preliminaries were cut short by
the arrival of a prisoner who had escaped from the Indians,
and who stated that the enemy were organizing an army
for the purpose of exterminating the white intruders in
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Kentucky, and that their arrival might be looked for in a
few days.
This, according to Paddy's idea, which he strove in vain
to impress upon others, was a conclusive reason why they
should hasten to depart.
The fort was immediately repaired. It consisted merely
of a quadrangular structure of some forty connecting log-cabins,
the doors opening on the square within. The hardy
pioneers relied more upon their own bravery and skill with
the rifle for security than upon the usual artificial or scientific
defences of civilized warfare.
At night, when they supposed the Indians were lurking
in the vicinity, the cattle were driven within the enclosure,
the gates fastened, and one or two sentinels placed on duty.
And such was the reliance on the prowess of their defenders
that some of the aged females, on one or two occasions,
declined rising from their couches during a night attack,
wherein the enemy quadrupled the little garrison in numerical
force.
On the present occasion, when the history of Charles
and Julia became known, and the sanguinary adventures
of Hugh McSwine were related and the horse-stealing
feats of Simon Kenton duly confessed, a belief prevailed
that a more determined and desperate attempt to destroy
the settlements would be made than any hitherto experienced;
and preparations were made accordingly. Every
man had a duty to perform, and Paddy was made to understand
that any proposition to diminish the strength of the
garrison at such a moment would be a pusillanimity deserving
of summary punishment.
And during this period of apprehension and suspense
the Rev. Mr. Jones reaped his harvest of souls. He
preached and prayed with great effect. No less than five
women and three men were plunged by him beneath the
pellucid waters of the Kentucky River.
But still the savages delayed the assault, and, as the
frosts were crisping the leaves, it was hoped the invasion
would be postponed until the ensuing year, when the influx
of emigrants would furnish men enough to meet the enemy
in the field. Under this supposition some of the people
grew incautious; and among them were Boone's daughter
Mary, Miss Calloway, and Julia, who, becoming intimate
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associates as soon as they met, were afterward inseparable
companions. They explored every hill and valley in the
neighbourhood. They called the saucy squirrels that gazed
at them from the low boughs their bonnies, and clapped
their hands as the startled buck sprang up before them in
the tangled brake. They gathered the wild plum, the haw,
the persimmon, and the papaw. And at dusky eve, when
the men ceased to garner the corn, and, guided by the sound
of their bells, sought the cows and horses among the cane
and drove them within the enclosure of the fort, the three
girls loved to linger, striving, but in vain, to find the
mysterious whippoorwill that filled the valley with its
wailing.
And at night, when the weary labourer, his hunger satisfied,
was steeped in profound slumber, the old women, not
requiring recuperative repose, usually sat till a late hour
before the broad hearths, the glowing embers of which
illuminated the recesses of the quiet cabins. Then it was
that Julia listened to the many thrilling narratives of “hairbreadth
escapes” from the savages and fearful encounters
with wild beasts and enormous serpents. Such was the
staple material of the fireside conversation in the new settlements.
And, although many a truthful tale thus narrated
harrowed the feelings of the auditor, yet there was a
fascination in the recital, a romance in the simple loves
and distresses, which caused the most timid maiden still to
linger and listen. And their dreams reproduced the most
terrible scenes, to be followed, too often, alas, by the reality
of suffering and death!
One evening, just at the first glimmer of twilight, when
the owl came flapping down from the hills and the whippoorwill
was uttering its first lamentation, the three girls
were still lingering on the margin of the river.
“Come, Mary,” said Sue Calloway, “don't you hear the
bells? They are driving in the cows and horses, and will
soon be looking for us.”
“Don't fear it, Sue,” said the daughter of Boone; “they
will not miss us — I mean you and I. Julia, though, is
always looked for and watched over by the handsome bird
of prey.”
“Bird of prey?” continued Sue, seeing Julia plunged
in one of her spells of musing abstraction.
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“Yes; don't you remember father says they called him
White Eagle?”
“Oh, yes! I forgot. And we poor neglected creatures
may wail with the whippoorwill,” she added, with a
sigh.
“Simon Kenton,” whispered Mary, while the other
blushed and turned aside her face, “says he loves the
song of the dusky bird, and knows where it perches when
singing.”
“Eagle!” said Julia, roused suddenly from her reverie.
“Did you not say something about the eagle?”
“Yes,—a white eagle,” replied Mary.
“You mean Charles. You need not smile. You cannot
annoy me by alluding to him.”
“We would not annoy you if we could,” said Mary.
“We merely desired to rouse you. You seemed unconscious
of the lateness of the hour.”
“But see!” exclaimed Julia; “the hills opposite are
tinged with the silver light of the moon before we can
behold the disk of the orb. You know we cannot see it
rise from the fort. Go in, if you will not stay with me,
and I will follow presently.”
The girls did as she requested, and left her standing under
a hawthorn-tree. They had become accustomed to Julia's
little eccentricities, which they attributed solely to the
delightful influence of love.
Julia awaited the rising of the moon, which seemed to
beam on her pale forehead as a light from her distant
home; and she smiled as she gazed at the joyful messenger
from the East. Then turning into the little path leading
through the clustering vines and bushes toward the gate of
the fort, she was startled by the rustling of dry leaves in
her immediate vicinity, and paused to listen. To her dismay
and horror, a tall Indian, of herculean frame, arose
and stood before her. She did not cry out, but her heart
throbbed audibly.
“Fear not. I am a friend,” said the Indian, in very
good English.
“Who are you? What do you want?” asked the trembling
girl, quickly, and glancing hastily round, as if in quest
of some avenue of escape. But there was none.
“I am one who will do you no ill. I want a few brief
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words with you, and then you may go to your friends.
You have heard the White Eagle say his brother Thayendanegea
was incapable of lying. I am Thayendanegea.”
Julia breathed more freely. She was aware that the
savages often professed friendship when they meant harm;
but it was not so with the great sachem of the Six Nations.
“Speak on; I am listening,” said she.
“First,” said the chief, making a stride toward the
shrinking girl, and gently taking her unresisting hand,
“promise that you will not make known my presence in
this vicinity. On that condition you have my word that
you shall return to your friends unharmed by me—if you
desire it.”
“If I desire it? But I promise. Now be quick!” said she.
“Yes, if you desire it. I am now a king. If you will
go with me,—voluntarily, I mean,—you shall be my bride,
my queen, and I will love you during the whole of my life.
My sister loves the young companion of her infancy, and
mourns over his desertion. Let him marry her. We will
seek a retreat where the white man cannot come, and
be happy. The tomahawk shall be buried. We will live
in peace. Thousands of innocent lives will be spared. The
Great Spirit you worship will smile on you—”
“Impossible!” said Julia, in tears.
“It is the last offer!” continued Brandt. “Another
moon, and it will be too late. The tribes of every nation
are rousing, and, when the hatchet is sharpened and the
war-paths are trodden, neither orators nor sachems will be
able to withhold the sinewy arms of the warriors. The
Mohawks love their white brother, and their king loves the
white maiden. Speak! But think of the benefits you may
confer or the sufferings entail on your fellow-creatures.”
“Oh, Brandt, it is impossible!”
“Go, then!”
“Oh, tell me,” she said, pausing in her flight, “where
your sister is, and if she reproaches us.”
“She complains not — reproaches not — but loves on.
She would die, if she were not a Christian and did not
fear to offend her God.”
“Bless her! Oh, Thayendanegea, tell her I love her
dearly! But say her sister fears her, too — or else she
would have her always near—”
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“Brandt would slay her first! Say no more! Farewell.
Breathe to no one what has passed this night. And yet,
Julia,” he continued, in faltering and softened tones,
“you may reveal it to Charles, if he will promise not to
seek me during the next twelve hours, in the event of rejecting
my offer.”
And before the girl could reply the chief had vanished;
and, when she turned her face again in the direction of the
fort, she saw Mary and Sue approaching with hurried
steps.
“The moon is half an hour high,” said Mary, “and yet
you tarry.”
“I've heard of people being moonstruck,” said Sue.
And then, seeing Julia pale and distressed, she took her
hand tenderly and asked her forgiveness.
“There is nothing to forgive, Sue,” said Julia, returning
the caress. “You did not mean to offend me. That is
sufficient.”
“But why are you so cold and pale?” asked Mary.
“Am I?” was all the response Julia vouchsafed.
“Yes, truly. And I am sure you have seen something
which has terrified you.”
“Seen something?”
“A ghost, perhaps,” said Sue. “It was not an Indian,
or she would not have remained here alone; nor a lover,
for he is in the fort seeking her.”
A sad smile was all this sally produced. And then they
entered the gate.
“You have been weeping,” said Charles, late in the
evening, observing Julia's abstraction while the rest were
singing merry songs.
“And for what, pray?” replied she, with a faint smile.
“I know not, unless it be to return. But why should
you seek to hide your grief? That is the mystery.”
“It is a mystery and a secret,” said the girl, her face
assuming a deathlike paleness, “which I cannot reveal
until you have first promised not to betray it to others.”
“I cannot conceive the necessity. But I promise.”
Then she related in a low tone what she had seen and
listened to. Charles became very pale, and long remained
silent.
“And you told him it was impossible?”
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“Can you doubt it?”
“Certainly not, when you say so.”
“I have said so. What else could I tell him? Why
should he presume to make such an offer?”
“True. And he is ambitious. He could never love
thee as I do. Pardon me. My mind reverted to the instances
in ancient history of persons sacrificing themselves
for their country—suffering death to save the lives of
others. And Brandt has heard of them, and would be
famous. But he is incapable of loving, and could make no
one happy.”
“Would the result be as he promised? Would peace
ensue?”
“No! He is mistaken. He could not restrain them. He
might detach some of the warriors from this section by
leading them against others. But I doubt even that. The
Shawnees of Chillicothe and the Wyandots on the Miami
have sworn to drive the white people out of Kentucky. It
would be a bootless sacrifice. You would be miserable, and
I could never love the Brown Thrush but as a poor, simple,
wild-wood sister.”
“Nay, do not fear I shall become an advocate of the
arrangement,” said she. “The experience of poor Van
Wiggens would alone deter me. But here is Skippie, who
has been invisible for several days.”
“Skippie,” said Charles, gazing at the imperturbable
features of the mysterious messenger, “how did you get
in?”
“Over!” said he, his gestures indicating that he had
entered over the roof without being seen by the sentinels.
“Well?”
“Going,” said he, pointing eastward.
“When?”
“Morning.”
“He will take any letters we may write, Julia,” said
Charles.
Skippie nodded assent.
“Then, like Kate, I will write all night,” said Julia.
“Oh, I will freeze her blood with an account of the interview
I have just had with the terrible Brandt!”
“You may injure your health, or at least your eyes,
Julia, by writing so much. Permit me to work for you.
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I will be your secretary. My letters can be despatched in
an hour.”
“Indeed! I will do my own writing. What! permit you
to see my letters? You are very, very kind, sir! Where
is Skippie? Gone! No matter. But in truth, Charles,
I will not injure my eyes. My journal has been copied in
anticipation of some such announcement from the faithful
Skippie. And you know it is to be enveloped and sealed
by Kate, and opened at some distant day when we shall
not be living to blush at our silly confessions. I shall have
plenty of time.”
Charles returned to his room to prepare his letters, and
Julia likewise hastened to perform her task. And it may
be remarked that, as our narrative is partly founded on
these documents, they were faithfully delivered by Skippie.
CHAPTER XVI.
HORSE-HUNTING ADVENTURE — KENTON AND PADDY —
GROUND-HOG KILLED—THE GIRLS CAPTURED—THE PURSUIT—
PETER AND HIS ASS—THE BATTLE, AND RECOVERY
OF THE GIRLS.
After the appearance of Brandt, Charles, accompanied
by such of his party as were disposed to go with him, made
several excursions round the fort, always ending at the
river. But no traces of Indians were discovered, and he
concluded his forest brother must have come alone, crossing
and recrossing the river at the fort.
After this the vigilance of the people relaxed again, and
the girls resumed their twilight rambles, forgetting that,
although no savages might be within sixty miles of them at
one noon, numbers could arrive before the next.
“Come, Paddy,” said Simon Kenton, about this time,
“let's go and see after the horses.” It had been their
custom to count them three times every day, and to collect
the stragglers.
“'Faith, and I don't see the use of it,” said the reluctant
Paddy, who, although accustomed to taking care of horses
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in comfortable stables, never approached them in the cane
without fear and trembling.
“The use of it? Don't we find some of them fast in the
vines almost every day? There are no Indians about;
but still they require looking after. I will go alone, if you
prefer working in the field gathering corn.”
But Paddy did not prefer any such labour, knowing that,
if he should be suddenly assailed by the Indians while
working in the field, he would be quite as liable to injury
as when among the horses with a gun in his hand.
So the two sallied forth, and were soon counting the
horses, which crowded around them for their accustomed
salt.
“Hello!” cried Kenton, gazing about wildly, “where's
Dan?” This was the name of his favourite steed.
“Sure enough, where is he?” said Paddy. “And I'd
like ye to tell me who's here to answer a question the
likes o' that? The dumb brutes can't talk in our language,
and Paddy knows jist about as much as yerself,
Mr. Kenton.”
“All the rest are here,” continued Kenton. “It's
strange! Dan is generally the first to lick my hand.”
“And who knows if a painter hasn't caught him? They
say thim carniferous varmints always choose the best. If
there's a tinder woman about, they'll niver gnaw the bones
of a man. And it's dacent in 'em to spare us who are
bound to go out in the wild woods and cane-brakes. And
what is it ye're listening to, Misther Kenton?”
Simon had stepped apart and stooped down in a listening
attitude.
“All right, Paddy!” said he, rising erect again, the
dark cloud gone from his brow. “I hear Dan's bell. But
it's a long ways off, down the river.”
“And is he not a sinsible horse? He's promenading
betwixt the stations, guarding and proticting the forts.
He's a jewel of a baste, and good for his weight in goold.
If we stay here a while he'll come to us, and so we naadn't
budge afther him.”
But this mode of reasoning did not satisfy Kenton. He
insisted that something very unusual had caused the separation
of his best and gentlest animal from the rest. Indeed,
the whole drove were in the habit of following Dan's
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bell, and he must hasten to see what had happened. In
reply to Paddy's objections to going with him, he merely
said if any Indians were prowling about the greatest
danger would be in the immediate vicinity of the fort. And,
if Paddy's argument failed to convince Kenton, Kenton's
hint was not thrown away on Paddy, and so they set out
together down the river.
Their progress at first was very slow, as they traversed
a dense cane-brake; and when they emerged from this
they encountered tangled blackberry-bushes, often covered
with grape-vines.
“Och, but I'm torn all to paices, Misther Kenton!”
said Paddy. “Stop, if ye plase, till I cut meself loose.”
“Tear through 'em, Paddy, as I do,” said Kenton;
“your buckskin shirt and leggins can stand it.”
“If the skane of the dead buck can stand it, Misther
Kenton,” said Paddy, “divil the bit can the skin of a live
Paddy! Me hands and face are full of prackles, and the
blood of a thrue son of Erin is flowing in this nasty wildherness.”
“Hush, Paddy!” said Kenton, again placing his ear near
the ground. “I've lost the bell!”
“And what betther could ye expict in sich a place as
this? And if you iver find it agin it'll not be worth the
stooping for.”
“There it is!” cried Kenton, smiling. “I hear it now.
But we must get out of this. It is over yonder in the
woods. Dan must have moved since we started.”
“I'm much obleeged till him. And sure he's a sinsible
horse to lade us out of these purgatorious brambles. But,
upon me sowl, I haven't yit heard the first tankle of his
bell!”
“You have not lived in the forest, Paddy,” said Kenton,
leading the way into the tall sumachs, where their progress
would be less obstructed.
“That is thrue,” said Paddy; “houses were made for
men to live in, the wild woods for wild animals and blackguard
savages. Yit, Misther Kenton, I have as many
ears and as good ones as any person, and now I hear
Dan's bell. I did not listen afore.”
“We are getting nigher to him. But what the d—l
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did he straggle out here for? And why didn't the rest go
with him?”
“Will ye tell me one thing, Misther Kenton?”
“May-be so.”
“Wasn't it wrong in him to come out?”
“Yes, hang me if it wasn't!”
“Hang me, then, if it wasn't right in the others not to
go wid him! And so Mr. Dan must give up his bell to
Misther Charles's horse.”
“I don't believe he did it without a cause. His bellband
may be fast to a bush. Good-morning to your nightcap!”
This was uttered when a large buck sprang up a few
paces in front of them, and bounded away with his tail erect,
the under or white portion of it, as usual, exposed to view.
“Be jabers, he's stopped to look at us!” said Paddy,
throwing his gun up to his shoulder.
“Don't fire!” said Kenton.
“Don't fire? And what's your raison for that same?”
“I have a reason.”
“And won't ye tell it before the deer's gone?”
“Oh, he's gone long ago. Don't you see him rushing
over the ridge yonder, three hundreds yards off?”
Paddy, on turning his head again, caught a glimpse of
the buck at the place indicated. He seemed much offended,
and followed his companion several minutes in silence, and
until Kenton paused abruptly, his lips slightly parted and
his rifle half in readiness to fire.
“And what're ye frowning about now?” asked Paddy;
“any child can hear the bell widout stooping down till the
falthy ground.”
“Hush!” said Kenton, in a low voice. “Sit down here
with me, and don't speak above a whisper.”
“Not spake above a whasper! For fear, I suppose, the
horse'll hear us and run away?”
“Fool!”
“Did ye mane that for me, Misther Kenton?”
“Be quiet, if you don't want to lose your scalp!”
“Och, I beg yer pardon, misther! And there are Indians
about, sure enough, thin?”
“I think so.”
“And how could any one want to lose his sculp? You
oughtn't to name any sich thing! I'll go back!”
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“I wish you were in the fort! Could you find the way
back yourself?”
“Niver! My head's been turned and twisted so I
wouldn't know which way to start. Won't ye go wid me?”
“And lose his scalp? No, indeed! That fellow's hair
shall be dangling from my belt when I go in, or my name's
not Simon Kenton! Poor Dan's gone—that's certain!”
“Won't ye explain all this to me, Misther Kenton? I
can't understhand a jot of it.”
“The yaller rascal's stolen my horse, and thinks he is
sure of my scalp in the bargain. Didn't you hear that?”
“The bell, ye mane? Of coorse?”
“Well, are there any flies at this season?
“No, not that I knows of. But there's abundance of
flaas in the garrison.”
“That bell is not shaken by Dan. It is in the hand of
an Indian!”
“Let's begone, Misther Kenton! Let's give the alarm
to the paple. Run as fast as ye plase, and I'll kape up
wid ye!”
“Hush! Be quiet! I will take that yaller rascal's scalp
in with me, or Sue Calloway and Simon Kenton will never
be man and wife! I place my hand on this log and swear
to it!”
“And all for a single horse, which'll be bit by a rattlesnake
next summer!”
“Paddy, you must do precisely what I tell you, or
creep back to the fort alone!”
“Will ye tell me to do ony thing dangerous?”
“Dangerous? We don't know what that means. There's
no such word in Kentucky. All that I want you to do is
to hide under this log, and not let your own ears hear a
rustle from you, or you may be tomahawked.”
“I'll be still as a mice! And mayn't I cover meself
wid the laves?”
“I don't care. When you hear my gun—”
“Och, Misther Kenton, how am I to tell yer gun from
an Indian's? It may be the report of a blackguard savage's
rifle shooting yerself!”
“Shooting your granny! I thought everybody could
tell the crack of my rifle. I can tell Boone's, blindfolded.
Every man's voice is different, and so is his gun's.”
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“And Paddy's schoolmasther didn't tache him the language
o' rifles!”
“No matter. The first gun you hear will be mine, and
the yaller rascal shaking the bell will be sprawling on his
face and the hot blood pouring out of his head. When
you hear my gun, jump up and make a d—l of a noise.
Fire off your gun—load and fire as fast as you can—beat
the bushes, yell, talk Irish, and make 'em believe—that
is, if any more of 'em are about—at least twenty men are
coming. Now hide yourself!”
Paddy, knowing he could never find the way back to the
station without a guide, was under the necessity of obeying.
Then Kenton rose up and uttered a prolonged and not unmusical
halloo, as he was in the habit of doing to attract
the ear of his horse, which had, like most other horses,
learned to know the voice of his master. Immediately
after, the bell was shaken quite loudly, in imitation of the
rattle made by a horse suddenly lifting his head.
Kenton smiled, and was just about to glide away in a
different direction from that whence the sound of the bell
proceeded, when he was called to softly by Paddy.
“Misther Kenton! Misther Kenton!” said he, “for
the sake of the Howly Immaculate Mother, don't be afther
calling 'em here, and laving me to be tomahawked be
meself!”
“Lay still, you — fool, and be silent, or I'll tomahawk
you myself, and be rid of you!”
“Och, murther!” said Paddy, submissively sinking back
under the leaves.
Kenton glided away stealthily, and made a wide circuit,
so as to attain the opposite side of the locality of the bell.
He knew every inch of the ground, and was aware that
the Indian was posted in a dense grove of sugar-maples,
some forty yards from the thicket of sumachs in the midst
of which Paddy was ensconced, and precisely in front of
the deer-path leading through it into the woods; and he
was satisfied the face of the foe would be kept steadily in
that direction. Hence his motive for the loud halloo before
executing his project of circumvention.
No cat ever moved with less noise than Kenton in the
execution of his well-conceived purpose. And so far was
he from experiencing any trepidation, that more than once
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he was under the necessity of pausing to repress an inclination
to laugh at the anticipated astonishment of the Indian
and the ludicrous picture his fancy painted of a savage
watching in readiness to shoot him as he emerged from the
sumachs, when he should be aiming at the back of the
Indian's head from the opposite direction.
And there was an instinctive prescience in his conception.
For when he approached the designated point, without
the crush of a leaf or the disturbance of a bough, he
beheld the Indian, with the bell in his hand and a companion
at his side, sitting on the fallen trunk of a tree which
Kenton himself had cut down to capture a bear.
The Indians were laughing silently at the anticipated
success of their stratagem, and expressing by mimicry the
amazement they had no doubt their victim would exhibit
when, instead of seeing his horse, he should find himself a
prisoner or hear the whistling of their balls before he could
present his own rifle.
Kenton paused and surveyed them when about forty
paces distant. Their faces were steadily turned toward the
place where the path entered the woods; and they were so
near it they could have heard the approach of the horse-hunter
before he came in view. Their position on that side
was sufficiently obscured by the intervening trees to render
any extraordinary precaution unnecessary.
But they were exposed on the other side; and Kenton
was determined they should hear from him, if they did not
see him, although he was a little embarrassed by the presence
of one more than he had calculated upon. Shifting
his position several times for the purpose of getting their
heads in a line, so as to perforate them both, several minutes
were fruitlessly expended; for, from the shape of the fallen
trunk and the inequality in the height of the Indians, the
project was impracticable.
He poured out a charge of powder in his buckhorn tube
and placed it beside a bullet at the root of the tree behind
which he was standing, so that he might be in readiness to
repeat his fire before the surviving enemy could rush upon
him. Then, taking a deliberate aim at the one with the
bell, whom he recognised as the liberated chief, Ground-Hog,
and the original owner of the horse Dan, he fired.
The bell and Indian fell together. The other Indian sprang
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up astounded, and, after glancing hurriedly in every direction
but the right one, prostrated himself beside his weltering
companion, as if to elude the aim of an enemy.
Kenton, meanwhile, lost no time in recharging his rifle;
and the surviving Indian, finding himself not assaulted,
and not knowing where the foe might be concealed, hastened
to make his escape. But, as is almost invariably the case,
he determined to bear off his dead comrade. So, being a
broad-shouldered, stalwart fellow, he rose with his neck
between the dead one's legs, the feet in front and the body
behind, back to back; and with his burden he ran through
the woods, continually turning to shield himself from the
aim of any foe that might be watching by interposing the
dead Indian.
So skilful were his manœuvres that Kenton was finally
under the necessity of firing through the dead body to reach
the living Indian. And this he did effectually, for they
both lay prostrate a moment after the discharge of his
rifle. He ran up and scalped them, dispatching the last
victim, who had been only desperately wounded, with his
tomahawk.
No sooner was this bloody work accomplished than Dan
was discovered a few paces distant, behind the roots of an
immense fallen tree. Thither the savage was bearing his
companion, and would have soon effected his escape.
Kenton threw his arms round the neck of his snorting steed
in a loving embrace, and then, mounting him, dashed into
the sumach-thicket where Paddy lay concealed.
“Paddy! Paddy! Where are you?” cried Kenton, his
horse standing with his neck arched over the log where
Paddy had buried himself.
“And is it yerself who asks?” replied Paddy, in a tremulous
voice, and at the same time springing up from the
leaves,—an apparition which frightened Dan, and Kenton
was near being thrown.
“Yes. Why didn't you answer me at first?”
“And how could I know it was yerself till ye towld me?
Murther! murther! I see the nasty sculps hanging to yer
belt!”
“Two of 'em, Paddy! So Sue Calloway and I may be
man and wife after all, if she'll have me. But why didn't
you fire and shout as I told you?”
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“Now come, Misther Kenton, how could I tell they
wasn't running this way, right over a body?”
“Well, suppose they had? Wouldn't you have 'em come
where you could see 'em?”
“Och, murther! they might've kilt me, and Paddy, sure,
would niver have enjoyed the smiles of any darlint wife.”
“But there would have been no danger. Your firing
and shouting would have frightened them away.”
“D'ye say that? And, sure enough, there'd be no
danger? Then here goes for a spicimen of the noise I can
make in a case of needcissity!” And he sprang upon
the log and fired his gun, and yelled, and howled, and
beat and twisted the bushes, to such a furious extent that
Kenton, half dead with laughter, was forced to alight from
his amazed horse to keep from being thrown.
“Are you mad?” cried Kenton.
“Mad, is it? As blazes!” said Paddy, firing off his gun
again. “Am I not fighting the Indians?”
“You are making a fool of yourself; and if there are
any more in hearing they'll soon put a stop to your howling.
That's not the noise a brave man makes, and I'll
leave you!”
“Misther Kenton! Misther Kenton!” cried Paddy, instantly
sobered, “ye are the bravest and the best man in
the world, and I will tell iverybody of yer great dades this
day. And sure, now, ye'll let me ride behint ye?”
Kenton could not resist the flattery; and, after some
difficulty, Dan permitted Paddy to occupy a seat on his
strong back; but there was no more Irish howling.
Kenton, when approaching the station, uttered the horse-halloo,
a sort of whinnying yell used by the scouts to denote
their success in the acquisition of horses. He listened in
vain for a response. All seemed to be silent. Astonished
and somewhat chagrined at this, he sounded the startling
scalp-halloo. This never failed to produce a prodigious excitement
among Indians or borderers. But on that occasion,
and to the amazement of Kenton, only one or two
responsive voices were heard; and when he dashed through
the gate there was no enthusiastic crowd to receive him
with plaudits.
Boone approached and examined the scalps in grave
silence. McSwine sat apart with a dark cloud on his
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brow. Van Wiggens was still, staring at his dog, and
“Vatch” himself stood like a marble quadruped, his blunt
tail sticking up immovably. The voice of Mr. Jones was
heard in the large cabin where he usually preached. He
was praying fiercely. Maledictions were uttered and
vengeance invoked.
“Oh, Mr. Kenton,” exclaimed Mrs. Calloway, rushing
out into the area, her long hair streaming loosely behind,
“they've got her!”
“Got who? who's got? what's what?” cried Kenton,
quickly, trembling from head to foot, and almost unnerved
by the indefinable apprehensions which oppressed him, intensified
by the singular change in the countenances of all
and the disordered hair and tearful eyes of the woman.
“Sue! the Indians have got Sue!” she screamed; and
then fell prostrate at the feet of the scout, whose breathing
was quick and oppressive.
“Oh, — them!” cried Kenton, in a shrill voice which
rang throughout the building.
“Yes, tam dem!” said Van Wiggens.
“Vatch” barked fiercely.
“Come! come!” cried Charles, rushing into the area
full-armed, and habited as an Indian. “We want ten men—
the best in the station—all volunteers—to go in pursuit.
Boone and I will lead.”
Then Kenton, as if his sinews, which had been apparently
paralyzed, were suddenly enfranchised from the
spell that bound them, sprang up in the air, and, striking
his feet together several times before descending, crowed
vociferously, like a cock.
“I knew you'd be one, Simon,” said Boone.
“One? and Sue gone?—I'll be SIX!” and, letting his
rifle fall gently to the earth, he struck the palm of his left
hand a violent blow with the fist of his right.
“Mary's gone too!” said Boone, in a husky voice.
“O Lord!” said Kenton; “and I was after Dan, and
didn't know it! But we'll foller 'em to the other end of
creation! They've roused a hornets' nest now! I feel as
strong as a buffalo bull! I could bite off the head of a
nail! I could—”
“And Julia!” said Charles—“they've taken her too!”
“That clips my tongue!” said Kenton, striding in front
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of Charles and gazing steadfastly in his face. “I'm dumb
now. I can't curse a bit. I feel like having the lock-jaw.
My arms ache! I could bust a rock with my fist! I'd
agree to strip and fight ten Indians at once. They might
have their tomahawks; all I'd ask would be my knuckles
and my teeth! Why are we standing here like scared
turkeys that don't know which way to fly? Don't let us
burn daylight, or moonlight either. Where's the volunteers?
I'm six!”
The number designated, after such a speech from Kenton,
were in instant readiness; and the most extraordinary
thing was the persistence of Paddy in his resolution to accompany
them. He said if the girls were not recovered
he didn't care to keep his “sculp.”
The three girls had been seized by a party of Indians
near the spring, on the river-bank, just after Kenton and
Paddy departed in quest of the horses. They had crossed
the river in the night in a canoe, which they concealed in
the bushes near the water, and then hid themselves in the
vicinity. The seizure of the girls was followed so quickly by
the pushing off of the canoe that, by the time their screams
had roused the men in the fields, they had been conveyed
to the opposite shore of the river. Their captors were
only four in number; but on the northern bank they were
joined by ten others. They hastened away toward the
Ohio, but rather in a northwest course than in the line
the fugitives had traversed from the Scioto.
The girls were placed on Indian ponies, while most of
their captors ran on foot. Kenton had diminished the
number of horses in the Indian country.
Julia looked round, expecting to see Brandt; but he was
not present; nor were any Mohawks among them. All
were Senecas.
They had not proceeded far before they were met by
Peter Shaver, on his jackass, whom the Indians abused for
lagging behind. Peter had been a volunteer in the expedition,
breathing vengeance against the whites, but determined,
at the first opportunity, to desert to them; and it
was to prevent such an occurrence, perhaps, that he was
required to retain his ass, which could not be beaten out of
his slow gait nor easily made to abandon the scenes and
society to which it had so long been accustomed; and,
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besides, the chief “Popcorn” afforded a fund of amusment
which the Indians enjoyed most heartily, and no doubt
Peter's life had been spared that he might continue to be
the laughing-stock of the savage warriors.
“You know the jack can't keep up,” said Peter, in
deprecation of their reproaches.
“You be dern!” said the leader.
Just then the ass, snuffing the breeze which blew from
the south, and upon which was borne the scent of the blood
of the Indians slain by Kenton, began to bray.
“Dern! stop him!” cried the leader of the party, who
drew his knife and threatened to cut the animal's throat.
“Wait till I get down!” said Peter, not at all reluctant
to be rid of his ass. “Now cut away as soon as you please,”
said he, when dismounted.
This produced some laughter when the Indians comprehended
the reason of Popcorn's willingness to sacrifice his
long-eared steed; and therefore the animal's life was
spared. But they choked him into silence, and, turning
his head back, whipped him along the path in the rear of
the ponies.
Then ensued an animated conversation among the Indians,
in their own dialect, some portions of which Julia
was enabled to understand. They were discussing the
probable result of the pursuit they anticipated,—the number
of pursuers, and how many would be left to defend the
station. From this Julia inferred the object was to weaken
the garrison.
Mary and Sue, though seemingly quiet and subdued,
had not forgotten the lessons learned in the wilderness,
repeated at many a glowing fireside. They broke off small
boughs from the bushes, and strewed fragments of their
handkerchiefs, and threads drawn from their clothing, in
the path they were traversing.
This operation was seen and understood by the leading
chief; and he did not forbid it until they reached the head-waters
of the South Fork of Licking River, near where
Mount Sterling stands. Here every effort was made to
conceal their trail. The girls were threatened with the
torture if they did not cease to scatter threads and twigs
on the ground.
Daylight was fading, and the shimmering stars appeared
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in the east; and, although the girls were both weary and
hungry, their captors paid no attention to their alleged
wants. On the contrary, they were forced to ride among
the slippery rocks in the midst of the stream, then exceedingly
low, as there had been a prolonged drought. The
Indians, sure of foot and reckless of exposure, followed.
The ass was sometimes urged forward by blows behind, or
dragged along by the ears. In this manner they proceeded
several miles, leaving, as they thought, no trace behind
them. But the Indians were outwitted by the girls, as
many wiser men had been before them. In the dusky
shades of the clustering boughs, the Senecas could not prevent
their captives from detaching some of their long silken
hair and hanging it on the willows.
Their progress was now very slow, and it seemed they
had no intention of flying far. The object was to confuse
their pursuers. The girls were dismounted when the water
became deeper. The ponies and the ass were taken to the
opposite side and driven down the right-hand bank of the
stream, while the captives were conducted along a path on
the other side, which soon diverged from the river and
led into the hills.
It was a well-beaten path, and quite dusty. The girls
were ordered to keep in the centre of it and follow their
leader in single file. Behind, an old Indian brought up
the rear, obliterating the footprints with a bough of cedar,
and leaving no traces but his own moccasin-tracks.
They travelled thus until, from the height of the moon,
the girls supposed it to be near midnight, when they again
struck the river, which had increased in width and volume.
They descended the bluff and halted in a beech-bottom,
near the mouth of a small rivulet that emptied into the
larger stream. And here they were surprised to find the
ponies, the ass, and the Indians who had separated from
them several miles back.
The poor girls, supposing they would be compelled to
mount again and pursue the journey all night, were ready
to despair. They feared it would be impossible for their
friends to follow. But no indignities were offered them,
which, at least, was an assurance that their lives would be
spared. The Indian never insults his female prisoner
unless he means to kill her afterward. And Peter
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Shaver had several times made encouraging winks and
gestures.
The girls were not required to mount the ponies again
that night. A fire was kindled under a rude shelter hastily
constructed, and some buffalo-tongue, sliced and broiled,
sufficed for their supper.
Not fearing their captives would attempt an escape, the
Indians returned upon their trail for the purpose of more
effectually destroying it. Peter, known to be incapable
of finding his way in any direction in the absence of a
beaten path, was left to keep the fire replenished.
It was during this temporary withdrawal of the savages
that Julia learned from Peter that their seizure was to be
attributed to Queen Esther, and that Brandt had nothing
whatever to do with it. On the contrary, the great
sachem had returned, silent and terrible in his gloom,
from a solitary excursion, and, leading his people toward
the East, announced his intention to strike his tomahawk
into the heads of the white people living nearest to the
Eastern lakes. His aunt, Gentle Moonlight, and sister,
Brown Thrush, were still remaining at Chillicothe when
Peter left the village; and Calvin likewise remained, and
had been promised the hand of the beautiful Indian girl
provided he would head the Delawares, who had just joined
the confederacy of the Six Nations. To this, however, he
objected; and Gentle Moonlight did not sanction the
project. The forest maiden was silent, knowing her aunt
could dispose of her as she pleased. But she sang continually
of the White Eagle, and her thoughts and dreams
were of the woods, and streams, and flowers, beyond the
grave.
When their captors returned, the girls were ordered to
occupy a small space in the crotch of a fallen tree near the
fire. Leaves sufficed for a couch, and a buffalo robe for a
shelter from the dew or frost. They kept themselves warm
by clinging together under their weighty coverlet, and endeavoured
to cheer each other with such prospects of a
speedy rescue as the circumstances afforded. Their whispers
were at last hushed in slumber, for the idea of escape,
unassisted by their friends, never occurred to them. They
dreamed of those they loved best, and that they had been
delivered from the hands of the enemy; but in the
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morning they awoke to the sad consciousness that they were still
in captivity
After a slight repast the journey was resumed; and the
Indians were merry with the conviction that they had
effectually concealed their trail.
Their progress the second day was neither rapid nor in
the most direct course for the Ohio River; and it became
evident that the Indians looked for the arrival of friends
who would be interposed between their captives and the
stations of the white men. Being out of meat, several of
the warriors diverged from the path in quest of deer, and
their rifles were soon heard in various directions. This
convinced Mary Boone that they no longer feared pursuit;
but it did not quite extinguish her hope.
The first deer brought in, as usual, set Peter's ass to
braying. Mary could not avoid laughing, and the Indians
patted her on the head and said, “Brave Captain Boone's
daughter—laugh at Popcorn's jack—good squaw!” And
it was a singular characteristic of the Indian to praise, and
spare, and love Boone, whom they dreaded more than any
other foe.
In the evening they encamped at an early hour, having
recrossed the Licking. The place where they rested was
at the mouth of a creek emptying into the river, known
since by the name of Indian Creek, about a mile from
Cynthiana. It was a narrow bottom, overgrown with beechtrees,
and a position well adapted for defence. And here
the girls found a better shelter than that of the preceding
night. It seemed to have been an ancient camping-ground,
for old forks were found standing.
Leaving Peter with the girls, the Indians dispersed in
various directions, to be satisfied, as usual, that no enemy
lurked in the vicinity.
Peter amused himself firing at the ducks that pitched
into the mouth of the creek, that being a famous place for
them to collect of evenings; and, finding a canoe in the
vicinity, he obtained his victims without difficulty. And
Mary and Sue undertook to dress and roast them. This
was done much to the satisfaction of the Indians, who partook
heartily of the fowls, and praised the girls for their
skill in cooking.
At night the repose of the captives was disturbed by the
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howling of wolves. Those animals seemed to have collected
in great numbers in the vicinity; and occasionally their
glaring eyeballs, as they stood on the opposite side of the
creek and gazed at the fire, were plainly discernible.
“I guess I can blot out one of their eyes,” said Peter,
raising his gun to his shoulder.
“Totem!—Seneca Totem!” cried the leader of the Indians,
striking up the muzzle of the rifle; and the ball
whistled over the tree-tops.
“I beg pardon,” said Peter; “I forgot the wolves were
your brothers, and that I was connected with the same
respectable family.”
The Indians comprehended his speech in part, but did
not attach any importance to the jest. But they attached a
superstitious signification to the presence of the wolves, or
to their mode of howling on that particular night. They
were even kind enough to throw the fragments of their
feast to them, but this did not silence their cries.
“Mr. Shaver,” said Julia, as she leaned upon Sue's
friendly shoulder, watching the glowing embers, and unable
to sleep, “how did you like the family into which you were
adopted?”
“I guess you mean how I disliked it. There was no
liking in the matter.”
“I suppose Mr. Van Wiggens disliked it quite as much
as any one, since he embraced the earliest opportunity to
get away.”
“I guess he did. He was my adopted mother's husband,
you know. They had a row the first night. She
was drunk, and wanted to make him drunk too. And I
reckon he had no particular objection to being drunk, for I
have seen him in that way; but it was the most abominable,
outrageous liquor you ever tasted.”
“I never tasted any, Peter.”
“I beg pardon. Even Paddy, my new brother, couldn't
swallow it, and he had a will to get drunk and forget his
troubles.”
“So none of you tasted it?”
“I guess we did, though! The scent of the stuff filled
the wigwam. It druv out Paddy and his daddy. I fell
asleep, or I'd'a gone too.”
“What did Diving Duck say in the morning?”
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“It'd've kept two or three interpreters busy to translate
her words. She jabbled like a whole flock of parroquets.
She was always a famous scold, and the Indians dislike
scolding wives as much as white men do.”
“Do they?
“Darned if they don't! And some of the squaws have
tarnation bitter tongues! But Didapper, seeing she had
no husband to listen, soon stopped her Niagara Falls of
words, and took up the frying-pan. The frying-pan is
what she used to beat her old man with. She gave me a
rap over the head, and it rings yet! And she told me if I
didn't bring back my father she'd marry me! I guess she
may, if she ever catches me.”
“Hush!” said Mary, in a low voice.
“What do you hear?” asked Julia.
“Lie down, Peter!” whispered Mary; then, turning to
Julia, said her eye had caught a signal from her father.
“I saw nothing,” said Julia.
“There it is again!” said Mary, pointing at an acorn
that fell near the fire and rolled to their feet.
“That is an acorn,” said Julia.
“I know it,” responded the other. “But we are not
under an oak-tree.”
“If it be your father, why cannot I see him?” asked
Julia, rising softly and gazing round. “No,” she continued,
“there are no bushes here to hide any one. I fear
you are mistaken.”
“I am not! The signal is for us to lie down, so as not
to be in the way of their bullets.”
Julia involuntarily clung closer to her companions, and
Peter himself seemed inclined to maintain a more intimate
proximity to the girls than, under other circumstances,
would have been permitted.
“How quietly the Indians sleep!” whispered Julia.
“They always do,” said Mary; “and we must not move
or speak above a whisper, whatever we may hear or see,
until bidden by my father. The Indians will not have time
to kill us, and we must not be afraid.”
Soon after, their deliverers were seen to glide from behind
the trees and stand with their guns pointing at the
Indians. But the heads of the girls, as they peered over
the crotch of the fallen tree, were between the rifles and
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the sleeping savages. Boone, by an emphatic gesture, commanded
them to lie down and be still, which they obeyed
instinctively. The next moment a deadly volley was fired
into the midst of the unconscious savages, and such as
escaped the fatal lead sprang up, yelling horribly, and disappeared
in the forest.
The girls rushed into the arms of their deliverers; and
Sue Calloway was embraced, and lifted up, and kissed, by
Kenton.
“Sue!” said he, “I'd wade through fire forty foot deep
to save you!” Sue said nothing, nor opened her eyes, her
face reclining on her deliverer's shoulder.
And Julia clung to Charles, while Mary wept with joy
on the breast of her father.
“Be me sowl, I'm hungry!” said Paddy; “and here the
savage blackguards have been having a fayst to thimselves!
And what do ye call that same noise?” he continued, arresting
his hand as it was conveying the half of a roasted
duck to his mouth.
It was the familiar sound of Peter Shaver's jackass,
some forty paces distant, braying terrifically.
“Hello! Where's Popcorn?” said Paddy, upon recognising
the voice of the beast.
“Here I am, Paddy Pence!” said Peter, rising up.
“Divil take me if I belave ye!” cried Paddy, aiming
his empty gun at Peter's breast. “You're one of the savage
Indians who saized the young ladies. Surrinder, or
you're a dead man!”
“I rather guess I can soon convince you I am Peter
Shaver, if you'll throw down the shooting-iron and stand
up to a fair fist-fight,” said Peter, deeply affronted.
“None of your nonsense!” said Boone to Paddy; “and
do you go and stop that ass's mouth,” he continued, addressing
Peter, who obeyed reluctantly.
“And what's that same?” cried Paddy, dropping his
duck into the fire. It was the warwhoop of the rallied
Senecas, and a moment after their balls rattled like hail
about the fire; but none of the party were killed, and only
two were slightly wounded. Boone and Charles deposited
the girls in the place of security, and ordered the men to
post themselves behind the trees out of the light of the
fire. This was done immediately, and a desultory conflict
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was kept up until early dawn, when the Indians retired
into the wilderness beyond the creek.
When the gray morning appeared, Charles left his tree
and approached the shelter which concealed the girls; and
the first object that attracted his gaze was the form of
Paddy. He was snoring lustily beside the silent though
watchful girls. Charles roused him with a smart blow, and
the Irishman sprang up and stared in amazement.
“I was dhraming, Misther Charles,” said he.
“And what business had you here?”
“Och, I was proticting the ladies! But I was so hungry
and tired, I fell aslape. I beg the swate craters' pardons!”
Boone discovered a slaughtered deer which the Indians
had hung upon a tree beyond the reach of the wolves; and
this sufficed for breakfast.
Without loss of time, the party set out on their return
to the station. Kenton had found the ponies, which the
Indians left behind. But neither Peter Shaver nor his ass
could be seen; and it was supposed he had been recaptured
by the Indians upon going out to silence the braying.
“Be the powers,” said Paddy, “may-be it wasn't Pater
afther all! And I was cheek by jowl with a savage
inemy!”
Although the loss of Peter was naturally regretted, yet
the party had been too successful to mourn a great deal
over his fate, whatever it might be; and the joy of the
enfranchised girls was a sufficient recompense for their
fatigues and perils.
And Sue, although Kenton could not obtain the pledge
he desired, acknowledged her deep indebtedness to her
brave and generous deliverer.
Julia, in the exuberance of her recovered spirits, amused
Charles and the rest with a recital of the information she
had received from Peter regarding the inconsolable Didapper
so cruelly deserted by her lord; and poor Van Wiggens
was heartily congratulated upon his escape from the frying-pan.
“Tam dem! te vimmen!” said he. “And I shall pe in
te fire, ven I gets back mit te oder Mrs. Wan Viggens!”
The hairs hung by Sue on the boughs pendant over the
water, as she was assured by Kenton, had enabled them to
follow the trail of the Indians. But Sue did not thank her
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beau for the compliment, for her hair was very red,—a
colour never admired by its possessor.
Toward evening, and after a pretty good day's travel,
the party were surprised to perceive signs of a large party
of Indians, which had passed southward within the last
twenty-four hours. This discovery was perhaps a fortunate
one. They might but for it have encamped upon such
ground as would have made their fire visible to the enemy;
but now, instead of this, they resolved to push forward and
cross the river without halting. This they effected before
midnight; and their arrival at the station was the occasion
of general rejoicing and of thanksgiving by the Rev. Mr.
Jones.
CHAPTER XVII.
SIEGE OF BOONE'S STATION, AND BATTLES—BROWN THRUSH.
Runners arrived the next day from Hoy's, Bryant's,
Logan's, and Harrod's stations, with the startling intelligence
that Indians had been seen in their respective vicinities.
From the simultaneous appearance of the enemy in
different places, it was inferred that all the forts were to be
attacked at once, and, if possible, demolished at a blow.
Preparations were made to repel any assault, and to
withstand a siege. The grain was gathered and all the
stock confined within the hollow square of cabins.
Nor had these measures been taken a moment too soon;
for, the day afterward, the enemy appeared in considerable
force on the south side of the river, and surrounded the station.
They consisted principally of Indians,—Wyandots,
Shawnees, and Western Delawares; a small party of British
from Canada, commanded by Duquesne; and some half
a dozen renegade Americans, among whom were the Girtys.
Duquesne desired a parley, and professed to have been
charged by Governor Hamilton to offer such terms as could
be honourably accepted by the settlers. But their treacherous
purpose was soon discovered.
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From that moment the deadly strife began. On all
sides the fort was assailed, for it was surrounded completely.
But the fatal aim of Kenton, McSwine, and others, stretched
so many of the savages on the plain that they were compelled,
in despite of Duquesne's orders, to fall back and
seek shelter behind the trees and under the protecting
bank of the river.
At night the assault was renewed, and the besieged had
to fire at the flash of the enemy's guns. The night was
dark, the sky overcast with clouds; and the blazing arrows
whizzing through the air, the continued fire of rifles without,
in a crescent form, extending half-way round the fort,
and, within, radiating outward to the enemy, formed a
grand and terrific spectacle.
The females moulded bullets for their defenders and
carried them food, so that they might not be under the
necessity of abandoning their posts; and a certain number
of the men, who were not expert with the rifle, or unpractised
in shooting “at the flash,” as it was called, were
detailed for the purpose of watching the blazing arrows
and extinguishing the roofs and sides of the cabins when
ignited. Among these Paddy had been placed, much
against his will, for he greatly preferred peering through a
small loophole to exposing his person on the huts.
“And now, Mr. Bone,” said he, leaping down, “I
naadn't stay up there ony more, for all the water's spilt.”
Boone long remained silent. His great error—indeed
the only error he had committed in the location of his fort—
was now painfully apparent. The spring was some distance
above, and in possession of the enemy! The stock
of water, as Paddy said, was exhausted!
“Fill your buckets with the damp earth!” the pioneer
exclaimed; “and if that gives out you must roll upon the
fire and smother it with your hands. If one cabin burns,
all must go, and every one of us will be scalped!”
Paddy rushed back to his post, pale and desperate. He
thought it better to be shot than burned; but he kept as
much as possible in the lee of the apex of the roofs.
So far, only two of the garrison had fallen; but the
enemy suffered severely, and the death-halloo was heard
continually, as Boone, or Kenton, or McSwine, fired “at
the flash,”—an achievement hitherto unattained by the
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Indians. At first they believed their warriors were accidentally
stricken; but it could not long escape their observation
that they always received the fatal wound in the head,
and most generally in the eye, and when in the act of
firing themselves. This discovery induced them to observe
greater caution, and not to fire more than once or twice
from the same position.
Toward morning a smart shower fell, much to the relief
of the garrison, and apparently in answer to the petition
of the Rev. Mr. Jones, who watched and prayed alternately.
And about this time the besiegers ceased firing, and it was
believed by some they had abandoned the attempt to reduce
the forst. This illusion, however, was soon dispelled. For,
early in the morning, Kenton, stuffing his buckskin coat
with straw and surmounting it with his cap, pushed the
effigy through an orifice in the roof. It represented one
looking out boldly on a field supposed to be deserted by
the enemy. In an instant several sharp reports were
heard, and, Kenton making the man of straw fall back in
imitation of one fatally wounded, a yell of savage exultation
was uttered
“Look at that, Sue!” said Kenton, pointing to the perforations
in his garment.
“I'll mend it for you, Simon,” said she.
“Yes, you'll mend my coat, but you don't care for the
wound under my vest.”
“That was not done by a savage,” said Mary, smiling
composedly, being familiar with such scenes.
“A savage could not be more unfeeling,” said Kenton.
Then, listening to the reiterated shouts without, he continued,
“The yellow d—ls know my coat, and are rejoicing
over my death. You see, Sue, what a great man
I am in their opinion. They count me six, and I am six
in any common crowd! But won't I astonish 'em when
they see me the next time?”
They were interrupted by the entrance of Boone and
Charles, with excited countenances.
“Oh, what is the matter now?” asked Julia.
“Be not alarmed, Julia,” said Charles, taking her cold
hand. “We shall defeat them yet. Boone has conceived
a plan which will frustrate the purpose of Duquesne and
Girty.”
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“What purpose do you allude to?”
“Have you not seen how turbid the river has become?”
“Yes. It has been observed by all. Was it not caused
by the rain?”
“Look at the stream above the spring.”
Julia did so, and perceived it was clear, and then exclaimed,
“They are mining! They will burst up the ground
and appear in our midst!”
“No! be the powers, no!” cried Paddy, springing up.
“And is it undermining us they're afther? Let Paddy
alone for countermining 'em. He'll be in his ilement with
the spade. Misther Bone, if ye'll give me a spade, I'll do
the sarvice of three men. I'll give the yaller blackguards
a lesson in the art o' digging!”
Boone smiled, and said if Paddy and a few others would
work with expedition the danger would soon disappear.
And Paddy performed wonders with the spade,—his natural
implement. But again great distress was felt for the want
of water, which, however, was never suspected by Duquesne,
who doubted not a well had been dug in the fort.
Another shower fell during the day and revived the spirits
of the besieged; and toward evening, from the accumulation
of earth thrown up by Paddy and his co-labourers,
the Scots, the enemy, perceiving their design had been
counteracted, abandoned the attempt to effect a subterranean
passage. They recommenced firing from several
points, and manœuvering in such manner as seemed likely
to produce a sally from the garrison. Once, for the purpose
of inducing the whites to come forth, they affected to
be panic-stricken and in full retreat on one side, while on
the other all was silent and still, as if no foe lurked in the
vicinity.
It was in vain. Boone and Charles understood their
purpose, and succeeded for a long time in restraining the
more impetuous and less experienced of their friends from
pursuing the enemy.
There was one man, however, more intractable than the
rest, named McGary, who swore that half the men were
cowards; and, late in the day, when the foe made a final
effort to draw them out on the east, McGary, in disregard
of the urgent remonstrances of Boone, issued forth, followed
by a few others, and charged the savages. Instantly,
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as had been apprehended, the main body of Indians sprang
up from the place of their concealment on the west, and
made desperate efforts both to storm the garrison and to
intercept the sallying party. They reached the gate of the
enclosure, which they hacked with their tomahawks. In
several places they succeeded in setting fire to the cabins,
while a detachment, led by Girty, got between McGary
and the station.
Boiling rain-water and molten lead were contributed by
the women to aid in repelling the attack; and the fire was
extinguished and the assailants hurled back with loss. But
the situation of McGary and his men became desperate.
Driven from the gate and the cabins, the main body of
the enemy were soon concentrated near the spring, and
kept up an incessant firing on the men who had inconsiderately
left the defences and were now endeavouring to
fight their way back to the friendly shelter.
McGary's men at length concealed themselves in a “sink-hole,”—
a funnel-shaped depression in the earth often met
with in Kentucky,—about ninety paces distant from the fort,
but not more than forty from the spring. From this position
they returned the fire of the enemy at the embankment
of the river, but were liable at any moment to be
assailed from an opposite direction by the decoying savages
they had gone in pursuit of.
“There!” exclaimed Boone, listening intently, “they
are doomed unless we save them! Girty is coming on the
other side!”
“Let's plunge into 'em heels over head!” said Kenton.
“I don't believe any are now on the west of us,” said
Charles.
Boone darted a look of admiration at the young man.
“That's the idea!” said he. “They must not kill
McGary. Take the Scots with you into the brake and
make a circuit beyond the sink-hole. Give the attacking
halloo as a signal. We will meet you at the spring.”
Words were few and brief, and the order was executed
without delay. The enemy retreated up the river, leaving
a number of their dead on the ground, and McGary was
rescued, but not without the loss of several of his men.
Charles and Kenton followed the foe until they made a
stand in the thick woods, when Boone sent them word—
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himself remaining at the spring, supplying the garrison with
water—to desist from the pursuit.
The order was well timed; for the enemy, recovered from
the surprise, were preparing to charge in turn. And when
the whites were re-entering the garrison the bullets of the
Indians were pattering around them.
The exasperated Indians exposed themselves more recklessly
than ever, and challenged the white men to come
forth again and have a fair fight in an open field. The
garrison, being outnumbered three to one, of course declined
the invitation.
In the course of the day the besiegers were reinforced
by several straggling parties; and on each occasion the
accession was announced by a particular halloo, well understood
by Charles.
“That was the fierce howl of the Senecas,” said Charles
to Julia, whom he had briefly joined.
“The Senecas!” iterated Julia, in terror. “I hoped
they were gone! Their presence here is proof that you or
I, or both, have especial reason for painful forebodings.”
“I think not,” said Charles. “No doubt it is the party
which captured you, and some of the servile instruments
of the vengeful Esther. They fear to appear in her presence
without being able to conduct one or both of us thither
as prisoners.”
“And what do you suppose would be our fate?” asked
Julia.
“If the council of sachems did not interfere it would be
a terrible one. The longer Esther hates, the more implacable
she becomes; and we have thus far thwarted her
designs.”
“Yes, it is that party; I know it now,” said Julia,
listening to a familiar sound.
This was the braying of Peter Shaver's ass; and it was
followed by the shouts and mirthful laughter of the Indians
and British. No chief among them seemed to attract more
attention than the renowned Popcorn.
Just then Paddy ran in.
“Och, Misther Charles,” said he, with wide-staring eyes,
“Misther Bone wants me to go out and help Misther
Kenton, who's as crazy as a loon, to catch his horse. It
got out of the gate and is playing round the fort, and the
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bloody savages are watching to kill the first man who lays
hands on him.”
“If it is Kenton's favourite steed,” said Charles, it
must be recovered, or its master will be lost.”
“And Misther Bone says I ought to go out and expose
me body as a target, because the horse knows me. I shall
be careful in forming intimate acquantances with other
paple's horses hereafther! I'll shoot, or I'll dig, but I
won't go out horse-hunting wid the blackguard savages!”
When Charles accompanied Paddy to the gate, which
was held partly open to admit of ready ingress if Simon
should return with his steed, he beheld a spectacle which
riveted him to the spot. The horse, having become impatient
of his confinement, was now making amends by
taking sufficient exercise. He ran round playfully, but
would not permit Kenton to approach near enough to place
his hand on his mane. He reared, kicked up behind, and
then rapidly circled round his master.
The Indians, hoping to capture the spirited animal, came
from behind the trees and embankments which had sheltered
them, and gazed with interest at the scene. They
hoped the horse would entice his master within their reach;
and they forbore to fire, fearing, if the horse were killed,
Kenton would elude their grasp.
Alternately, when the steed avoided a skilful attempt of
his master to sieze him, or when Kenton by some man
œuvre balked the horse in his purpose of passing him,
shouts of applause and laughter came alike from the besieged
and besiegers. At last, when all eyes were fixed
upon the spectacle, and the deadly strife seemed suspended
by mutual consent, they were startled by the renewed braying
of Peter's ass, and the next instant that distinguished
animal, perhaps recognising the horse as an old acquaintance,
rushed forth from the tangled brake, with the
frightened Peter on his back. Peter strove in vain to turn
him aside, out of the range of the rifles of friend and foe,
to which he was equally exposed.
Fearing the loss or desertion of “Popcorn,” several of
the Indians fired at the ass; but so greatly convulsed were
they with laughter that their aim was wide of the mark,
and Peter was resistlessly borne along toward the fort.
The noble horse pricked forward his ears and stared at the
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approaching beast. Evidently he did not recognise his old
acquaintance, whether from contempt of his meaner nature
or because of the change in his aspect—for the Indians
had painted the poor creature most fantastically—was not
obvious; but, snorting loudly, the noble steed turned and
ran toward the gate, followed by Kenton, and both were
quickly admitted within the enclosure, amid the yells and
huzzas of the spectators.
“Don't shoot me! Don't shoot me!” cried Peter, his
braying ass still trotting directly toward the gate. “Don't
shoot!” he continued, with his arms spread out, and his
face turned now toward the fort and now in the direction
of the besiegers. “I ain't an Indian! I ain't an Indian!”
cried he; “and I guess I'm on your side!”
“Who are you?” demanded the man at the gate, who
had never before seen Peter or his ass.
“I'm Peter Shaver! I'm Peter Shaver! Don't shoot!
Let me in!”
Boone himself threw open the gate and admitted Peter.
And when the jack met his numerous acquaintances, male
and female, within the area, he ran about and brayed very
rapturously.
There was much joy over the recovery of the long-lost
Peter, and he was congratulated upon successfully running
the gauntlet of two fires.
“Talking of fires,” said Peter, “I reckon I can tell you
some news that'll keep you from freezing this winter.
The Indians have concluded to burn every mother's son of
you! I saw 'em roast a poor fellow the other day! I
guess I'll never have a pleasant dream again.”
“Was it a drame?” asked Paddy.
“A dream! You'll see soon. They know you. They
say they'll make splinters of the Irishman to kindle the
others with.”
“Och, murther! and will they split me up before they
kill me, and burn me before I'm dead? Och, Paddy,
Paddy! why did ye lave the cabbages of yer own nativeborn
counthry!”
“That's a sensible remark,” said Peter; “and if I ever
set my toes in Harford streets once more, old Trumbull
may hang me for a Tory before I go fighting the savages
again.”
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“Every one to his post!” cried Charles. “They are
coming from all directions!”
“Reserve your fire!” shouted Boone; “and when they're
within twenty paces let each man aim at the one opposite
him. After firing, out with your tomahawks and down
with your rifles!”
The assailants were divided in four parties, approaching
rapidly from the different points of the compass. They
were in number fourfold the strength of the garrison.
But there would have been a very material diminution of
their force if Boone's directions had been followed.
Unfortunately, Paddy's agitation was so great that his
gun went off a moment too soon. Many others, supposing
this a signal, followed his example, but not before the assailants,
as was doubtless concerted, had prostrated themselves,
and thus escaped the fatal effects of the discharge.
`Be jabers, we've kilt ivery blackguard of 'em!” cried
Paddy, in exultation. “Be me sowl, I was mistaken!” he
added, the next moment, upon seeing them rise again;
“they were only stunned.”
The few who reserved their fire now selected their victims,
and their fatal aim produced an astonishing effect on
the savages, who vainly supposed all the rifles were discharged
over their prostrate forms.
“We've stopped them! Now load and fire as fast as you
can!” cried Boone, seeing the enemy reeling and hesitating,
instead of attempting to surmount the picketing. This
order was obeyed with alacrity and complete success on the
sides where Boone and Charles and Kenton commanded. But
on the other, where Girty led, the assaulting party succeeded
in pulling down several of the palisades between the cabins.
They rushed in, tomahawk in hand, and were met by
McSwine and his Scots in the centre of the area. A desperate
conflict ensued, amid yells and shouts, the prancing
of horses and the braying of the jackass. But the
struggle was terminated by the fall of Girty himself, at
whose side the Rev. Mr. Jones had taken a deliberate aim
with his pistol. The Indians and the few British under the
renegade's immediate command bore him out and retreated
under cover of the river-bank. Several of the party, however,
had been left within the enclosure, and these were
immediately tomahawked and scalped.
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It was just at this distracting moment, when the battle
was won and the enemy were flying in all directions, that
the ears of Charles were assailed by a familiar voice, and,
looking in the direction whence it proceeded, he beheld,
issuing from the cane on the west of the fort, the form of
his forest sister.
She came, with arms uplifted, crying, “Kill me! kill
me! kill me!”
“Don't fire, for your lives!” shouted Charles, seeing
several of the men aiming at the advancing girl.
He threw open the gate and rushed forth to meet her, at
the same time speaking in a loud voice, and in the Indian
language, to the enemy, beseeching them to spare the sister
of Thayendanegea.
Brown Thrush never lowered her uplifted hands, nor
ceased to cry “Kill me!” until she fell upon the breast of
Charles, who, turning, bore her through the gate into the
fort, where they were instantly surrounded by eager spectators.
“Oh!” cried Julia, pale and tearful, “see the blood!
Who could have done the cruel deed?”
The poor Indian girl was weltering in her gore, inanimate,
but with her arms still clasped round the neck of
Charles.
“Merciful heaven!” gasped Charles, on beholding the
wound in the breast of the poor girl, “who could have done
this? Some miscreant has killed her in my arms!”
Every one in the fort denied having perpetrated the act,
and, as her history was known to most of the garrison, pity
and indignation were felt and expressed by all.
“It was one of Queen Esther's instruments! It must
have been!” said Charles, weeping over his forest sister.
“Bring her into the cabin,” said the Rev. Mr. Jones,
“and she may recover. She is not dead. I feel her heart
beating.”
“See! she revives!” said Julia. “Poor sister!” she
continued; “I will be her nurse.”
Charles followed the preacher with his burden, the arms
of the wounded girl still clinging to his neck; and, when
gently deposited on a couch, her consciousness returned,
and, upon recognising the features of the one she loved, a
sweet smile spread over her face.
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“My poor sister,” said Charles, in broken accents, “why
did you expose your tender breast to the aim of the Seneca
dogs?”
“The Brown Thrush had sung her last song,” said she,
in her own musical language, which none but Charles and
Mr. Jones could fully understand. “She longed to go to
the happy land where the bright streams are dancing—
where those who love can never be separated—and where
the warm sunshine is never intercepted by clouds. Your
wild-wood sister was afraid to take her own life, since the
Great Spirit had forbidden it; but she thought he would
not be angry if she had another to kill her. I was so unhappy!
Oh, my brother, when will you come? And must
I travel to the far land alone? How long shall I wait for
thee?”
Charles was incapable of utterance, but wept like a child
over his dying sister. Mr. Jones, perceiving the wound
was mortal, and that the poor girl's life was rapidly ebbing
away, strove to cheer her with such assurances as his mission
authorized him to pronounce.
“Do not weep for me!” said she, seeing the tears of
Charles and Julia. “We shall meet again where tears
cannot come. Then the White Eagle shall love the Brown
Thrush as dearly as the Antelope. I am happy now. My
sight is growing dim, like the mist of the morning; but thou
art near. My sister, give me your warm hand; let me
place it on my cold breast. My brother, be happy; but
don't forget her who charmed thee in the wild woods with
her song. When we meet again in the spirit-land, open
your arms as you did to-day, and clasp your sister to your
heart. When you did so I was happy, though the wound
came at the same moment. I will be more happy there,
where no wounds can reach me. Dig a deep grave by the
spring, and breathe a prayer over thy faded sister! Farewell!”
Her form sank back, and her spirit fled to its eternal
abode. A profound silence ensued, and every head was
bowed in sorrow. The preacher sank upon his knees, and,
although his lips moved in prayer, no one heard his words
but the Invisible Being who alone possessed the ability to
grant his requests.
A flag was sent in the next day by Duquesne with a
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proposition for a suspension of hostilities until the dead could
be buried; and, as his party had suffered the most severely,
and he would derive the greatest benefit from a strict fulfilment
of the terms, the request was granted. But the bearer
of the flag was, to the astonishment of the garrison, the
famous Simon Girty himself, whom they believed to be dead,
and most of them had rejoiced in his supposed destruction.
It appeared that a piece of leather in his pocket had saved
his life. The ball of the pistol, however, had stunned him
and brought him to the ground.
The body of the Indian girl, after being shown to the
chiefs of the enemy at their special request, that they
might know she had not been scalped, was enclosed in a
bark coffin and deposited in a deep grave under the weeping-willow
near the spring, as she had requested.
After lingering a few days in the hope of obtaining
horses, but which was blasted by the vigilance of Kenton,
the Indians departed for their homes on the Scioto and
the Little Miami.
CHAPTER XVIII.
WINTER AT BOONE'S STATION IN KENTUCKY—CHARLES
AND JULIA RETURN TO NEW JERSEY.
When the savages withdrew from the vicinity of Boones-borough,
it was observed by Paddy and Van Wiggens in
their rambles that one of their rude bark shelters had not
only been left standing, but several pieces of buffalo-meat
remained on the roof, and smoke seemed to be still ascending
from its centre. They drew near to gratify a very
natural curiosity. Watch, the little mongrel cur, with his
stump of a tail rigidly erect, preceded them; for dogs are
quite as curious as men and women.
“Vat's dat?” cried Van Wiggens, seeing the dog retreating
whining, and his tail down.
“Be my sowl, that's more than I can tell ye,” said
Paddy, “unless ye step forrud and see what it is.”
“Go see, den,” said Van Wiggens.
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“Who? I? And are ye afraid to do it yerself?”
“Afraid?”
“Yes. Are ye not frightened now, because yer dog is
barking at a ground-hog, or polecat, or some other varmint,
under there? I'm laughing in my slave at ye! Afraid of
a skunk, when we kill 'em ivery week under the cabins!”
“Vat's dat you mean? Dunder! Me afraid? Der
teiffel! Noting but Mrs. Wan Viggens can scare me!”
and he strode forward toward the dark shelter, followed
with reluctance by Watch, while Paddy remained at a respectful
distance.
No sooner did the Dutchman enter the low habitation
than his ears were assailed by a tempest of words which he
was incapable of interpreting; and, before he could retreat,
his leg was seized by some one half-buried in the leaves.
“Dunder! lev go my leg!” he shouted.
The dog barked furiously.
Paddy ran away, and never paused until he plunged into
the area of the quadrangle, shouting “Indians! Indians!”
A crowd, of course, soon assembled, and Paddy was constrained,
with some difficulty, to pilot the men back to the
scene of the discovery.
Before they arrived in the vicinity, the bark of Watch
was heard, as if baying some huge monster which he durst
not approach. The next sound was the rattling voice of
an old woman, whom Boone pronounced a scold, and a
drunken one at that. Drawing near, they beheld poor Van
Wiggens retreating slowly from the bark hut, dragging
through the leaves by main force the body of Diving Duck,
who still clung to his leg and called him her husband. In
vain he strove to make Watch seize his tormentor. The
dog had once been rudely handled by her, and could not
be induced to venture within her reach.
“I was only jesting!” said Paddy. “I made ye belave
I was frightened for the sake of the joke. Scared at a
squaw!” Such were the replies he made to the sneers of
the men who had come forth eager for “a fight.”
“Tam it! von't nopody help me?” cried Van Wiggens,
who, from his corpulence, soon became exhausted, and
puffed and blowed prodigiously.
The old squaw, with dishevelled hair and bloated cheeks,
turned her keen eyes upon the men and laughed. Even a
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dog can tell a man's humour by looking him in the eye; and
Diving Duck perceived at once that she afforded amusement
for the spectators, and was in no danger of being killed.
After the merriment had been sufficiently prolonged,
Boone commanded the old squaw to release her lord; and
the moment she did so Van Wiggens and his dog took
to their heels and fled to the fort. The old woman ran
about shaking hands with the men, fearless of injury, until
she fixed her eyes on Paddy, whom she called her “pappoose.”
She tore a switch from a pendent bough, and
seemed determined to administer chastisement for some
previous offence, or to vindicate her authority, when Paddy,
following the example of Van Wiggens, fled after him toward
the fort. The old hag pursued; and when she approached
the gate Van Wiggens would have fired upon
her had he not been prevented by Charles. He then hid
himself in one of the cabins, and the old squaw was permitted
to rove about the huts without molestation.
Several weeks after the evacuation of Kentucky by the
Indians, Boone, at the head of a party of twenty men, set
out for the Licks to make salt,—that indispensable article
having become exhausted in the settlements. In this expedition
he was accompanied by his brother, and by all the
men from the Jenny Jump settlement excepting Charles
and Paddy. Van Wiggens led the van, gladly leaving
Didapper behind.
During the absence of this detachment the fort was too
much weakened to be abandoned by Charles; and his eagerness
to return to the Delaware river had to be repressed.
And Julia, pleading her promise to her dying father that
she would not, during her minority, marry without the consent
of her guardian, resisted the importunity of her lover
to have their nuptials celebrated in the fort. She admired
Mr. Jones very much, and could not entertain a doubt of
his piety, or even question what seemed to be his divine
mission; but, inasmuch as she had been baptized in the
Church of England, by Dr. Odell, of Burlington, she had
an irresistible desire to take the marriage-vow with the
wedding-ring at St. Mary's holy altar; and in vain did Mr.
Jones attempt to combat her prejudices, as he termed them.
In vain did he propose to read the ceremony from her own
prayer-book, and to manufacture, himself, aided by Van
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Wiggens, (who was a blacksmith,) a ring from one of
Charles's watch-seals. She begged him to desist, and announced
that her decision was irreversible.
About this time, during one of the dark nights of winter,
when the inmates of the garrison were assembled round
the cheerful blaze on the broad hearth of the principal
cabin,—the old women spinning flax and the young ones
knitting or sewing, listening to narratives of adventures in
the wild woods,—Charles was startled by hearing a pebble
fall upon the roof and roll down to the ground. Used
to such signals, he sprang to his feet and was approaching
the door, when the gentle hand of Julia arrested him. Pale,
and trembling very much, she begged him to desist.
“It is only the hail,” said Mrs. Calloway, silencing the
buzz of her wheel.
“The wind has been howling ever since dark,” said Sue,
“and it may be the large hail that sometimes falls at the
beginning of a storm.
“I don't think any Indians could have passed my father
at the Blue Licks,” said Mary.
“Not unless they captured him first,” said Julia, “which
may have been the case!”
“And that's not onlikely,” said Paddy, with staring
eyes and fallen chin.
“Could you not get into the potato-hole, under the floor,
and creep near the door?” asked Mrs. Calloway.
“Me?” said Paddy, in astonishment. “And sure I'd
be smothered in a minute! I niver could draw me breath!—
I mane, I niver could saa ony thing in the dark.”
“It is not an Indian,” said Mr. Jones.
“No,” said Charles; “if they had captured Boone and
his party they would have gone back to celebrate the event”
(which was really the case) “before venturing farther into
the country.”
“But give me light, Mrs. Calloway,” said Paddy, “and
I don't fear the divil!” and he had made two strides toward
the door when another pebble rattled down from the
roof. He paused abruptly. “Och, it's only the hail!”
said he, and resumed his seat. The next instant, however,
hearing some one whistle, he sprang up again, very pale
and trembling; but his trepidation was not observed. Both
Charles and Julia recognised the signal, and, uttering
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together a joyous exclamation, the door was thrown open,
and the imperturbable Skippie stood in their midst.
The faithful messenger was overwhelmed with hearty
greetings, which he bore in silence, but with a proud expression
of countenance. He brought, besides the packet
of letters, (unsoiled, notwithstanding the inclemency of the
season, and the long journey,) another accession to Julia's
wardrobe. To the profusion of thanks showered upon him
he made no reply, and, merely uttering the word “Virginia,”
the meaning of which was not comprehended, and pointing
to the letters, as if to indicate that they would speak more
explicitly, he withdrew to the kitchen, or rather the cabin
where the savory viands were usually cooked.
Charles's letter was from his father, announcing his continued
good health and the determination of France to
make common cause with the Colonies. But this resolution
had not yet transpired, and was still one of the secrets of
the court of Versailles. The aspect of affairs, nevertheless,
at that moment, was sufficiently gloomy. Washington,
with a mere handful of men, was hard pressed, and retreating
before Cornwallis; and a large portion of the people
embraced the terms offered in the royal proclamations, returning
to their allegiance. The Indians, too, led by
Brandt and instigated by Johnston and the Butlers, were
desolating the country on the northern frontier. Murphy,
Charles's faithful sergeant, did all in his power to maintain
the organization of the little band of patriots; but many
difficulties were thrown in his way. In short, Charles was
advised to return the first opportunity. Such was the
purport of the letter he received from his father.
Julia, while reading her epistle from Kate, could not repress
her joy upon learning that her old playmate was then
residing with the Moravians, in the immediate vicinity of
her guardian's house, whither she had flown as to a secure
place of refuge during the perils of the invasion of the
western portion of the State, then in possession of the
enemy.
“He's well! He's well again!” cried Julia, holding
the letter triumphantly aloft.
“He!” said Charles, gravely. “What he do you
mean?”
“Solo! Kate says:—`When your monster of a friend,
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from Newfoundland, first beheld me, I could with difficulty
elude his rather familiar attempts to place a hand (paw) on
each of my shoulders. Tears—whether of joy or grief, how
could I tell?—trickled down, and I could not prevent him
from placing his velvet tongue against my hand. How is
this, Julia? Has the sagacious animal heard you speak
of me, remembered your words, and recognised your friend?
Rely upon it, Solo has my love, and will have my watchful
care!' There, Mr. Eagle! Kate is in love with your
rival!”
“Read on! God bless Kate! I shall love her for
loving your dog.”
“I believe you were once inclined to love her for herself,
before she ever saw the dog. But I'll pardon that. Oh!
here is something very sad and horrible! Read it for me,
Charles.”
It was an account of the death of Mrs. Caldwell, the
wife of the Presbyterian minister. She had been shot by
a brutal British soldier, through the window of her chamber,
when in the act of prayer in the midst of her little
children.
“This act,” said Kate, “when known by the British
officers, was denounced, but they had no time to seek the
perpetrator. From the burning town they came to our
house. Father was absent. My mother, my sisters, and
myself, when we saw the British in the yard, retreated into
the back chamber. The front door was soon burst open.
Oh, it was a horrible night! A violent storm raging in
the sky as well as upon the earth. The lightning flashed
and the thunder rolled terrifically. But this was the voice
of God, and the providential means of our salvation. It
occurred to me that we might be less liable to outrage by
meeting our foes boldly face to face. They were already
striking their muskets rudely against the door. I stepped
forward, in my loose white wrapper, for we had retired at
an early hour, and threw open the door. At that instant the
hall was illuminated by a vivid flash of lightning, and no
doubt my face was as pale as the corpse they had seen.
The soldiers, horror-stricken, fled away, declaring they
had been confronted by the ghost of Mrs. Caldwell, murdered
by them in the morning. In a moment the house was deserted
by them. Julia, you know they used to say there
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was a resemblance between Mrs. Caldwell and myself.
Who could have supposed it would produce such an
effect?”
This portion of Kate's letter caused a profound sensation,
and Mr. Jones no doubt would have gladly seized the opportunity
to “improve the occasion,” had his eye not fallen
on his own name, in a familiar hand, on one of the letters
brought by Skippie. It was from his friend Anthony
Wayne, demanding his presence in Jersey, or, as he expressed
it, “wherever the enemy may drive us, for we
shall never get out of our difficulties without your aid, and
I hope the cause is not past praying for.”
There was likewise a letter from Mrs. Van Wiggens to
her absent husband, but none present felt authorized to
open it. But Kate, in her diary, mentioned her several
times, and said she was succeeding very well with her
tavern.
There were also letters from Thomas and Richard
Schooley. The former intimated a purpose to have the
lands jointly held by himself and Julia's father surveyed
and divided, as he had no idea of any portion of his estate
being involved in the confiscation. Charles Cameron had
been excepted in the recent royal proclamation offering
mercy and protection.
Richard announced his intention to seek the hand of
Judith Carlisle, the daughter of Abraham, a staunch
royalist. And he concluded with a proposition which
startled Julia. “Thee must learn,” said he, “that this
farm, and all the improvements thereon, appeareth, upon
an accurate survey, and the specifications in the deeds, to
fall to thy lot. But, as the expenditures thereon were
made by us, we do not doubt that thou wilt deal justly.
The royal cause must triumph in the end, and it is greatly
feared all thy estates will be forfeited. Now, as I have
still a friendly regard for thee, I would gladly provide for
thy maintenance. I learn that, with the consent of thy
guardian, thou mayest execute a legal conveyance of thy
lands; and, indeed, if thy father's Bible, found in one of the
boxes, would be taken as evidence, it appeareth by certain
writings therein thou art older than we supposed, and of
an age to act without the concurrence of thy guardian.
Therefore, if thee will name a moderate sum in ready
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money, as an apparent consideration for the lands, and
execute a deed conveying them to me, I will pledge myself,
after the bloody storm hath swept past, either to reconvey
them to thee, or else to pay thee such additional sum or
sums as three honest men may adjudge. And if thee will
not agree to do this thee will be a pauper upon the
county.”
Julia's eyes flashed indignantly. Throwing the letter in
the fire, she said, “Henceforth I am a rebel!”
“Amen!” cried Mr. Jones. “I'll tell Wayne, and he'll
tell Washington! If I'm not mistaken, these Schooleys have
more reason to apprehend a loss than yourself. But I must
retire. At dawn I shall set out alone for head-quarters.
Be not surprised, and do not attempt to interpose any
objections. I shall find my way thither in safety. You
cannot go till spring, and Skippie will remain till then.
Let us unite in an earnest petition to the great Captain-General
of the universe. If God be on our side, we shall
prevail. Let us appeal to him and be of good cheer. He
hurls the bolts of destruction, and the rolling thunders are
the reverberations of his voice. Remember who said, when
the tempest raged and the billows were lifted up, `Fear
not; it is I.' Yes, my brethren, if he be for us who shall
prevail against us? And was not his will clearly manifested
in the lightning's flash which struck terror to the murderers
of Mrs. Caldwell?”
He then knelt down in their midst and prayed fervently
and patriotically for about an hour.
The next morning, having provided himself with ammunition
for his pistols, and taking with him a supply of dried
buffalo-meat and a canteen of rum, the eccentric preacher
set out alone on his journey, never for a moment doubting
his ultimate arrival at the head-quarters of the American
army.
Diving Duck became a source of great annoyance to
Paddy, who regretted that he had not gone with the rest to
the Licks. She could not comprehend why her adopted son
should not yield obedience to her commands in the fort as
well as in the wigwam on the Scioto; and all her orders
aimed at the procurement of rum. She threatened, she
stormed, she begged, in vain. Charles had forbidden it.
After lingering about the fort a few weeks, she announced
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her purpose of returning to her own country, and demanded
of Charles an order for Paddy to accompany her.
“Do you wish to go with your mother?” asked Charles,
turning to Paddy.
“Me mother, is it? Howly mother forbid! And would
ye be afther sariously calling sich a varmint as that me
mother, Misther Charles? Plase don't do ony sich thing!
Go wid 'er, did ye say? I'd rather go back and live wid
the owld sow I kilt in the wild woods!”
“Shall I interpret your speech to her?” asked Charles.
“No! plase don't, or she'll be afther me wid the frying-pan.
But I'll tell ye what I'll do, and if ye plase ye may
turn it into the Indian brogue. I'll pack her up some
jerked buffalo-bafe and start her off on Pater Shaver's
jackass, provided she'll swear on the Howly Evangely
niver to call Patrick Pence her son agin!”
“Oh, do!” said Julia. “The sound of that animal's
voice is a terror to me!”
“And no wonder, Misthress Julia, as it reminds ye of
blood. And besides, Misther Charles, only consider that
Pater is anoder o' her sons, and she has a lagal right to the
baste; and if Pater objicts to it afther the baste is gone,
I'll give him me note for the vally of the crather.”
“It shall be done,” said Charles, quite anxious to get
rid of the animal. And the old squaw was delighted with
the arrangement. The only stipulation she added was a
modeate dram, and when it was greedily swallowed she
set forth on the ass.
As the winter passed away, the joy of the wanderers at
the prospect of a speedy return to the Delaware was engloomed
by the reception of melancholy tidings. A son
of Mr. Calloway, about fifteen years of age, who had accompanied
his father to the Licks, came in one day, pale,
haggard, and half famished. He told his sister, who wept
upon his neck, that their father and the entire party at the
Licks had been surrounded and captured by an army of
more than a hundred warriors. They had, however, pledged
themselves to Boone that the lives of the prisoners should
be spared, and that they should not be subjected to the
humiliations and pains of the gauntlet.
The Indians, instead of assaulting the forts, which might
have been carried when weakened by the loss of their best
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men, hurried away as usual to celebrate their success. And
it may be here remarked that the stipulations agreed to by
them were faithfully fulfilled.
The capture of the men at the Licks occurred late in
January, and February had been appointed by Charles as
the time of setting out. It was now feared some delay
would ensue, as he could not in honour abandon the post
assigned him when the opinion prevailed that the Indians
would return after depositing their prisoners in a place of
security; and the distribution of the emigrants recently
arrived among some half dozen forts might not suffice for
their defence if a single man were subtracted.
This apprehension was removed, however, by the unexpected
arrival of another body of emigrants. It appeared
that the glowing accounts of the salubrity of the climate
and fertility of the soil, which had reached the East, had
stimulated the people of whole neighbourhoods to emigrate;
and every man brought a gun with him.
His design being thus facilitated, and having the repeated
assurances of Julia that she would be able to perform
the journey, (for she had learned many lessons in
woodscraft during her sojourn in the wilderness,) Charles
made preparations for an immediate departure. Their
horses were selected and caparisoned. Buffalo-robes for
their warmth and shelter were provided. Food was packed,
and every needful arrangement for their comfort and
safety completed. Then, taking leave of their Western
friends, with many regrets for the loss of the comrades left
behind them, Charles, Julia, Skippie, and Paddy, commenced
the long and weary journey eastward.
CHAPTER XIX.
CHARLES AND JULIA IN BURLINGTON—THEY MEET THOMAS
SCHOOLEY — DR. ODELL — THE HAUNTED KNOCKER —
GOVERNOR FRANKLIN.
The incidents of minor interest during the journey eastward,
the scenery in the mountains, which were still covered
with snow, the hunting adventures of Paddy, and the
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hearty though rude entertainment afforded by the few scattering
cabins on the way, I cannot dwell upon in this place,
although the diary of Julia is lying before me in unfaded
calligraphy. Events of greater magnitude must occupy the
remaining pages of my narrative.
Once more Julia and Charles and Paddy were in the
ancient village of Burlington. And at that time it seemed
to have greater pretensions to rivalry in the race of cities
than at the present day. The idea that it would surpass
Philadelphia in population had not, perhaps, been entirely
relinquished; but the hope has faded since.
Julia, as soon as she was landed from the schooner at
the foot of Main Street, proceeded without delay, followed
by Paddy in the capacity of footman, to the residence of
her guardian, which she supposed would be still found remaining
in the occupancy of the old housekeeper. To her
surprise, if not satisfaction, the first person she met, when
passing the threshold, was Thomas Schooley himself.
“Why, Julia,” exclaimed he, “do I behold thee again?”
“Plase yer honour,” said Paddy, “I'll swear to her
idintity, as they made me do wanst before the coroner,
when Mary McShane made 'way wid herself.”
“Swear not at all, Patrick,” said Thomas.
“Not I, sir; but, plase yer honour, you have confissed to
me, and called me be me own name.”
“And am I so much changed, Thomas?” asked Julia,
smiling. She had procured new apparel in Philadelphia,
and there was no perceptible alteration in her appearance
since their separation.
“No—Julia—no! Thee does not seem to have changed
in aspect or inclination to follow the fashions in the style
and colour of thy outward adornments. But I did not
expect to meet thee here. Sit thee at the fire, and a
breakfast shall be prepared for thee. How didst thou
come, and from whence?”
“We have just landed from the schooner we embarked
in at Wilmington. But, before leaving the fort in the
western wilderness, Skippie had delivered thy letters.”
“The letters!” said Thomas, with unwonted energy.
“Hast thou preserved them?”
“No, Thomas,” said the girl, with an angry look. “I
consigned both thine and Richard's letters—”
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“To whom? Speak, Julia!” he said, hurriedly, and in
uncontrollable agitation.
“To the flames,” she continued.
“Flames! I thank thee!” he added, breathing freely.
“But it was not respectful; yet we will say nothing more
about it.”
“But we must have more to say in regard to those letters,”
said Julia. “Why didst thou write me in that
manner? And why wert thou so greatly excited just now,
Thomas?”
“Thee shall know all, Julia; only be patient. The
times are perilous, and the world is ever changing. The
offer was made by Richard in good faith. But since then
George Washington has performed miracles. He has surprised
and beaten the King's forces in several places, and
recovered the greater portion of this Colony. But the next
change will be in favour of the royal cause, and we who
are opposed to strife will have rest and peace.”
Julia listened attentively, without interrupting her circumspect
guardian; and, when he had finished discussing
the affairs of the Colony, she hastened to inform herself in
relation to matters in the Jenny Jump settlement; but
affairs there had experienced no material alteration since
her last advices from Kate. She was gratified, however, to
be informed that her guardian was only on a brief visit
in Burlington, and, having despatched his business, would
return immediately.
Charles and Skippie sat in the bar-room of the principal
hotel at the junction of Main and Broad Streets. During
the last year the establishment had experienced several
changes of proprietors. When the British were overrunning
the State, and Count Donop was encamped with
four hundred Hessians on the Wetherill lot in view of the
court-house, and the jail in the immediate vicinity was filled
with rebel prisoners, the premises were quietly leased to a
new landlord, who had, the next day, the sign of the British
lion swinging before the door. But after the battles of
Trenton and Princeton, the discharges of artillery on both
occasions being distinctly audible at Burlington, the frowning
lion lost his eyes, (the work of some boys in the night,)
and was made to succumb to the impromptu representation
of an eagle, and another transfer of the premises ensued.
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The last landlord, whom we shall designate by the name
of John Brown, to avoid identification, was familiarly
known by the cognomen of Mr. Allright, John being peculiarly
adapted to all parties and exigencies. Mr. Allright
John Brown was a bustling, portly, talkative, accommodating
host.
When Charles and Skippie entered the bar-room a party
of Tories had just been drinking at the bar, and as they
withdrew from the house they paused at the corner and
cast curious glances back at the strangers.
“Don't notice 'em!” said the host. “They are idle
characters,” he added, in a low tone, “who do nothing but
drink and pry into matters which don't concern them. I
wonder they didn't question you as to which side you
are on.”
“And, pray, to which side do they belong?” asked
Charles.
“Oh, they are for the King,” said the host.
“And I am for the Congress!” said Charles.
“I thought so!” exclaimed Brown, smiling, and enthusiastically
shaking the hand of his young guest. “I am
all right,” said he, with a significant wink. “But, my
young friend, be cautious how you express yourself before
strangers. One-half of 'em are rank Tories, and they
swear every rebel here shall swing on Gallows Hill. By
walking out into the middle of the street you can see the
hill, and the scaffolding erected last Christmas eve. But
that night Washington crossed the Delaware and played
the d—l with their calculations. Walk into the next room.
I smell the ham and eggs. And take my advice and hold
your tongue when curious ears are about.”
Charles and Skippie passed through the door to which
the landlord pointed, and sat down to the savoury repast.
And while they were appeasing their appetites, the door
communicating with the bar-room being left ajar, they
heard the following conversation between the host and a
new visitor:—
“Thee must still see after my house, John,” said the
visitor, “and supply the servant with food.”
“Certainly, friend Thomas,” said the host; “you may
depend on me. You have become my surety for the payment
of the rent. As I was saying last night when
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General Cadwallader arrived and interrupted us, the `Sons of
Liberty' were once going to tear down your mansion, but I
prevented it by saying you were as good a Whig as old
Flint-face himself.”
“Thee should not have said that, John. We are not
permitted to lie. If they had torn down my house there
would have been a reimbursement out of the forfeiture of
their own estates.”
“But suppose the rebellion should never be put down,
friend Thomas: what then?”
“No matter; I tell thee I would not lie to save my
house.”
“I know thee wouldn't, friend Thomas; and thee didn't.
Your conscience had nothing to do with it; I lied for you.
I don't mind it.”
“Thee must not do such things, John! I tell thee it
will not answer. If thee don't mind lying, how am I to
judge when thou speakest the truth? Thee says thy business
is profitable. How am I to know it? Thee declares
I run no risk in being thy surety for the rent; perhaps I
shall have it to pay for thee! Besides,” contined he, willing
to change the subject, “I hear that thee professed great
attachment to those officers of the rebel army who put up
with thee when passing.”
“Ha! ha! ha! Of course I did! Would you not have
me be agreeable to my guests? And you'll hear the same
thing of Lord Cornwallis and General Howe, when they
come. I'm all right! You needn't fear.”
Just as he uttered these words, Charles, who had finished
eating, returned to the bar-room.
“Hem! I—just step into that room!” said the host to
his young guest, pointing to another door. “There is a
good hickory fire in it. Step in!”
“I have seen Julia,” said Mr. Schooley, advancing and
offering his hand, which Charles did not refuse, “and learned
thou hadst returned. Thee looks well; and I am glad to
see thee dressed after the habit of civilized men, albeit I
do not approve the colour and fashion of thy garments.”
“Hem! That's strange!” said Brown, aside. “Glad,
and don't approve! And they know each other. I'm thinking
friend Thomas knows more about lying than he pretends
to.”
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“My garments suit myself,” said Charles, “as thine do
thee, friend Thomas. I do not object to thine.”
“We will not quarrel about our clothes,” said Mr.
Schooley, smiling faintly. “I am a man of peace, as I
would have all men to be; and I learn it is thy intention
to return to the upper settlement. I am glad of it. I do
not think thee will permit thy sergeant to annoy us any
more by exacting money from Richard.”
“Murphy must collect the fines prescribed by law,” said
Charles.
“Law! Well, thee may live to know what law is! But
no more. We must not quarrel. To-morrow we will
journey together. Farewell, till we meet again.” Thomas
withdrew, and hastened to collect the interest on various
sums loaned to the thrifty members of the Quaker society
composing a large proportion of the population of Burlington.
“Gad!” exclaimed Brown, approaching Charles, “you
know him? I'm all right! Schooley's an old rascal,—a
rank Tory! And he's going to cheat one of the prettiest
girls in America out of her fortun'. He's as rich as Crashes
now, but he wants more. It's a pity some handsome young
fellow like yourself don't marry the poor girl, and save her
fortun'. They say he had her taken off by the Indians, but
they wouldn't kill her.”
“That was a lie,” said Charles. “I know her, and I
know the tale is without foundation.”
“I'm glad to hear it. There are always a great many
lies in circulation. I hate a liar as I do a Tory. I'm all
right! And I'm glad friend Schooley isn't so bad as represented.
But he's as rich as Crashes, and you know such
men always have enemies.”
“Of course they do,” said Charles. “But can you tell
me what has become of Governor Franklin?”
“The governor? Certainly! He's in New York. The
British exchanged a general for him. He's at the bottom,
or rather at the head, of all the Tories in Jersey. He knows
who's who in these times, and he knows I'm all right!
Sometimes he is at Staten Island, and sometimes at Amboy;
and they do whisper he has even been here, in disguise,”
continued Brown, in a low voice, knowing that Franklin
was, at that moment, in his house!
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“Who occupies his mansion on the bank?”
“None but one of the old women of the family. The
celebrated doctor who, you know, is the governor's father,
sent the woman up to see after his furniture and books, and
the people haven't disturbed the place at all, on the doctor's
account. But it's haunted!”
“Haunted?”
“Bless you, yes! I thought everybody knew that.
Why, the old sycamore, belonging to the witches, is just
before the door. They dance and sing and knock every
night. It is said they have bought young Ben Sheppard
from his father.”
“And do the people believe such things?”
“Of course! And it's a good thing for the property.”
“I suppose they are afraid to enter the mansion.”
“They are, by gum!”
“Friend Charles,” said Thomas Schooley, re-entering,
his countenance betraying a mental struggle, “I have returned
to have a sober talk with thee. Come into the next
room. Now, my friend,” resumed he, when they were
seated in the snug chamber, since converted into a parlour,
“why should we not explain ourselves and have a clear
understanding of each other's purposes?”
“I do not know by what authority you may demand—”
“Tut! Pr'ythee, Charles, listen patiently to me. It may
be well for thee and for us both. An accommodation
may be effected, a compromise—”
“No, sir! I love Julia, and you are her guardian.
You can withhold your consent to our nuptials until she
arrives at a certain age, which, if the old Bible is to be
believed—”
“Thee hast seen Richard's letter! Well, the figures
are uncertain. Whether the date is 1755, or 1758, it
would be hard to decide.”
“No matter. I have no right to investigate the subject.
You can withhold your sanction, and we can wait, till your
authority ceases. That is all. I will not compromise my
own or Julia's character by any sort of agreement or bargain—”
“Thee misunderstands me, and will not listen. Will
thee answer one thing?”
“I don't know.”
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“I will ask the question, and thee can answer or not as
thee pleases. Dost thou intend to wed my ward clandestinely,
or openly against my wishes?”
“I will answer that, because it is not impertinent. You
are her legal guardian—”
“I am glad thee acknowledges so much.”
“And I am her ardent adorer.”
“Thee speaks as if she were a divinity!”
“No matter. You do not comprehend such things. I
intend, friend Thomas, to see Dr. Odell, and if he will
marry us—Julia consenting—we will return man and wife
to the Jenny Jump.”
“Indeed! It is boldly spoken!”
“Yes, and—”
“Thee is disposed to swear. I will leave thee.”
“It is an inclination I will repress:—a habit in civilized
society, and particularly among the loyalists. I did not
contract it among the Indians. They never swear. But,
Thomas, I am quite sure—at least very fearful—that
Julia will not comply with my request without your concurrence.”
“I thank thee for thy frankness. Adieu, till we meet
again at—”
“But, Thomas, why be in such haste? A word from
thee will be sufficient to remove the obstacle, and then
Julia will consent. I have been candid.”
“Thee has, and I will be so too. Thee shall not wed
my ward with my consent!”
“Very well! I shall not beg you to relent, nor attempt
to entrap you into a compliance. But you may rely upon
it that Julia will never marry your industrious son. So,
if it be your expectation to obtain her fortune in that way,
you will be disappointed.”
“Thee may have learned, since our letters to our ward
seem to have been subjected to thy perusal—albeit she said
they were burned—”
“She said truly. She threw them contemptuously, as
they deserved, into the fire.”
“I am glad of the action, and care nothing for the contempt.
Thee has no doubt heard of the purpose of Richard
to marry Judith Carlisle. Thee has not heard of the misunderstanding
since then—but no matter! Charles, thee
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thinks me a worshipper of mammon, an idolater of gold,
without honour or religion. Thee does not know me. Fortune
is desirable, and it is not sinful to seek it honestly.
It is not wrong to marry a wife with riches. But I have
a duty to perform. I made my friend, Julia's father, a
pledge which I must fulfil. Her fortune shall not be imperilled
while she continues under my control. That is the
promise I made. If I were to consent to her marriage with
thee, every thing would be lost when order is restored and
the king's authority re-established.”
“Oh, yes!—when the devil reigns, justice and virtue—
but no matter! It will be seen who are the losers. You
think the advices by the secret messengers from New York
are cheering. So be it. I have advices too. Let the game
be played. I win if you lose.”
“Thee talks like a gamester. Farewell!” And Thomas
withdrew.
Charles strolled out into the stret, and, passing the
Friends' burying-ground, where so many had been laid
without monument or inscription, approached the Episcopal
church, (St. Mary's.)
The door was partly open, and he thought he heard the
last notes of sacred music dying on the air. He paused
and looked in. The Rev. Dr. Odell stood before the altar,
with cup and plate before him, while about a dozen females
knelt around the chancel. On that unusual day, and at
that singular hour, he was administering the sacrament to
a small remnant of his flock. There was not a man among
them. We trust the same disparity of sex may not exist
in heaven!
Charles, yielding to the solemn impulse of the moment,
strode forward and knelt among them. He, too, although
so long a wanderer, belonged to the same flock. Tears
were on the cheeks of the pious minister, and several of the
women were sobbing.
When they arose, the eyes of Charles and Julia met.
They had been kneeling together; and, when the rest withdrew,
the lovers were beckoned aside by the priest.
“My dear children,” said he, when they were seated,
“God hath conducted thee to St. Mary's holy shrine on the
day of separation.”
“Separation!” said both Charles and Julia.
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“Separation; and perhaps a final one,” said the minister.
“The earthly shepherd is driven away from his
flock; but the heavenly Shepherd remains. Be of comfort.
The spirits of the pious dead who lie around us are at
peace. We must join them in time. They will inscribe
our names on the marble over our dust, and we, too, will
have our rest. It matters not where they may place us, or
who chisels the monumental marble, or what inscription
there may be upon it, so our names are written in the Book
of Life. The faithful will meet again in heaven. Farewell,
my dear children! I must go!”
“Go! Whither?”
“Whithersoever they may drive me. I must practise
what I have preached. We are commanded to render unto
Cæsar the things which are Cæsar's, and unto God the
things which be God's:—to honour the king and obey his
statutes. And for doing this my enemies have decreed that
I must leave the Colonies. I will not attempt to pronounce
judgment in this unhappy controversy. Neither will I violate
my own conscience or shrink from my duty. It is the
last time I shall see the faithful remnant of my beloved
flock. Hence my tears. Farewell!”
“Doctor,” said Charles, “Julia and myself are affianced
lovers. Will you not unite us in lawful wedlock before
you go?”
Julia's veil dropped down over her blushing face; but
she trembled and withdrew her hand, which Charles had
seized.
“It may not be, my son,” said the minister. “I know
all. Julia has told me all, and obtained my advice, which
is disinterested. I could not sanction a violation of her
solemn pledge to her father, nor could I approve of her
linking her earthly destiny with one who might bring sorrow
upon her gentle spirit. I know you would be incapable
of inflicting pain upon the beloved of thy heart. Others
would inflict it. When, as it is not improbable, like other
mistaken enthusiasts, you shall be brought to the block for
rebellion against the king—”
“Doctor!” exclaimed Julia, “it is not rebellion! it is
revolution! And I am as staunch a patriot as Charles.
Were I a man, I would rush into the battle-field and fight
for liberty!”
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“Poor thing!” said the doctor. “Well, my dear children,
you must excuse me. I cannot and will not violate
my sense of duty—”
“Forgive me, sir!” said Julia, quickly; “I do not desire
you to perform the ceremony which Charles is so anxious
to have consummated. But I do not condemn his patriotism,
and I do not fear the cause he espouses will entail
ruin on him. I will abide by my promise to my dying
parent—”
“God bless you both!” ejaculated the minister, holding
a hand of each. “Farewell! Postpone the solemnization
of your nuptials until this hurly-burly be done. If God so
wills it, the Colonies may be free—if separation be freedom;
and if not—but time will prove all things, and you
are both young enough to wait for the end. Adieu!
And may heaven's choicest blessings be showered upon
you!”
After lingering a few moments, Charles and Julia withdrew,
and, as they strolled together toward the mansion of
Thomas Schooley, they were met by that gentleman himself,
very pale and anxious.
“I hope thee will tell me truly and without delay,”
said he.
“Tell thee what?” demanded Charles.
“Whether John hath spoken truly.”
“What John? There are many of them.”
“John Brown, the hotel-keeper. He says you have been
married at the church.”
“Friend Thomas,” said Charles, “you know John has
acquired the accomplishment of lying. And I am very
sure you will be happy to learn he has been lying to thee
this time.”
“That may be very witty; but thou hast to learn that
principles are immutable things. I shall be glad to learn
thee has not been wedded, and regret that John lied
about it.”
“I am justly rebuked, Thomas, and ask thy pardon,”
said Charles.
“Thee has it. But thee has been to church?”
“Yes, sir. Dr. Odell believes, as you do, that we are
rebels—”
“I know that.”
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“No doubt; but, unlike yourself, he intends to leave us.”
“He leaves no estate behind.”
“His treasure is above. He has been administering the
Holy Communion to a remnant of his flock, who have taken
a final leave of him at the altar.”
“Mummery! Theatrical pageantry!” said Thomas.
“Mr. Schooley,” said Charles, “if you discard the Holy
Scriptures, your religion is that of the heathen; but if you
be a Christian, how can you deride the commands of the
Saviour?”
“Rebuked in turn!” said Julia, as she sprang into the
hall of her guardian's house, which they had just reached.
“Charles,” said Thomas, as the young man paused and
was about to return to his hotel, “if thee will come and
sup with us I will explain the principles of our religion.”
“I will call during the evening,” said Charles, “and
listen to thee, provided, if we should be converted, thou
wilt sanction our—”
“Pooh! nonsense!” said Thomas, entering the hall and
closing the door behind him.
After tea, Charles strode out alone to see by the moonlight
the changes which had taken place in the principal
streets of the old village. Burlington had then been
founded more than a hundred years.
As he slowly walked along the margin of the river, between
Ben Shephard's tavern and the governor's house, he
was overtaken by Paddy.
“Be jabers! and it's meself is glad to mate wid ye, Misther
Charles,” said he.
“The compliments of the evening to you, Paddy. I suppose,
Paddy, you are a happy man, now; and nothing could
induce you to quit the town again. There is no danger
here.”
“And there ye're out of it! The bloody Bratish, if they
could catch me here, wud skin me alive, like an ail; and,
as for sperrits, and witches, and hobgoblins, this ould village
bates any of the round towers in Ireland. Misther Charles,
do you belave the Quakers are rale flesh-and-blood paple?”
“Certainly!”
“Thin I don't! Look at their faces,—all tallow and no
blood! If one dies, it don't disturb a tay-party in the
same house. They don't put stones over their graves, and
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a husband dont go in mourning for his wife. I don't belave
they're rale flesh and blood. When one dies the rest
know he's not gone far off; and I belave they can't be kept
under ground. I've sane 'em set in the mating-house widout
opening their mouths only jist to hoot and stare like
owls. Sure they are convarsing with sperits when they're
silent. Look at their hats and coats, and tell me if mortal
men and women wud dress in that style?”
“They must be mortal, Paddy, for they love money.”
“And don't witches and sperits love the falthy lucre?
Why do the ghosts of murthered paple guard the puncheons
of goold at the ould tannery in Wood Strate, hid
under ground by the pirate Kadd? Why do the witches
daunce and sing ivery night under the sycamore by the
governor's house, if it ain't to watch the hidden treasure?
I belave the Quakers are witches and sperits, and that the
Yankees did right to burn 'em and drown 'em.”
“Nevertheless, you are in the service of one, Paddy;
but where are you going?”
“To the governor's house itself. Here's a paper
sayled up which Mr. Schooley bade me deliver to an ould
famale woman at the door.”
“Very well, I won't detain you; but I'm afraid we won't
have the pleasure of your society in the country.”
“But ye will! Be the powers! I wuddn't stay here
for—pause one moment, if ye plase, Misther Charles!
Surely ye wuddn't be after going in that direction, right
up Wood Strate, past the Pirates' Tra, when the stars and
the moon are blanking, and wanking, and shammering,
like the ghostly sunlight in one's drames!”
“Yes, I am. If dead men, or women either, walk the
earth again, I'm not afraid of them.”
“Thrue for you, Misther Charles; and Alexander, and
Saizer, and Charles the Twelfth, didn't fear man or baste;
but that didn't kape 'em out of danger. Let me go wid
ye. The sperits wont appear before two o' us.”
“I'm obliged for your offer of protection, Paddy; but
you have the packet to deliver farther down the bank.”
“And sure it's but a trifle of a little step, and you can
jist come wid me, and thin I'll go home wid ye.”
“Thank you, Paddy; but I'll take my chances and
brave the anger of the dead pirates. Good-night!”
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“Och, Misther Charles! now couldn't ye oblige me?—
he's gone! And I'm in a cowld swate! And I'll have to
tak' howld of that haunted knocker! And they say if the
divil's the last one that entered, the brass'll scorch one's
fangers! Och, murther! and there's no use in running
from 'em! Onyhow, I'll pape round about first.”
Such were Paddy's words as he drew near the stately
mansion; while Charles paused at the tanyard in Wood
Street, and gazed at the tree under whose roots, it was said,
the pirates had buried their treasure.
“Who are you?” exclaimed our hero, his blood chilled,
and his heart palpitating in spite of himself, upon seeing
a figure rise up from one of the half-filled vats and approach
him.
“Skippie,” replied the other.
“And what are you doing here? acting the ghost? I
have heard there was such humour in you.”
“Knocker,” said Skippie.
“Knocker! the haunted Knocker, I suppose?”
Skippie nodded affirmatively.
“Then I am to understand you are the one who knocks?”
Skippie again nodded.
“You need not have taken the precaution to inform me,
Skippie.”
“Horse-hair.”
“Horse-hair? Now, you will have to make a speech of
more than two syllables if you would be understood.”
But he did no such thing, for the next instant he had
vanished; and Charles, after gazing round a moment, resumed
his brisk pace, and did not pause again until he was
admitted into the presence of Julia and her guardian.
Paddy, after a somewhat prolonged reconnoissance, and
during which he failed to discern the gliding form of Skippie,
softly approached the door of the governor's mansion,
and, raising the handle of the knocker, gave several timid
raps.
But no sooner had he relinquished the handle, and was
standing quite still, listening for a footstep within, than the
handle seemed to lift up itself before his face and make
three loud raps.
“Howly Vargin!” cried Paddy, sinking down on his
knees.
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The door opened, and a tall, gaunt, white-haired woman
stood before him.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“Howly St. Pater presarve us!”
“What do you want? Did you not knock?”
“Plase yer hon—yer riv—I mane yer worshipful patticoats—”
“Did you knock?” again demanded the woman.
“I did; and, as sure as the sperits walk the earth, the
divil rapped after me. I saw it wid me own eyes! And
it's a blessing I arrived first, or me hand wud be scorched
to the bone!”
“What do you want?”
“I'm sure I'm obliged to ye for thim words, or I shud
niver've bane reminded of it! Here's a sayled paper Mr.
Schooley has directed to somebody here, such as can rade
the inscription; but, for me own part, I can't saa a scratch
of writing on the back o' it.”
The woman took the paper from his hand, and re-entered,
closing the door behind her. Paddy, who had risen, stared
after her, and then at the mysterious knocker; and, while
he gazed, the handle was lifted up again, and three distinct
raps sounded in his ears.
“That's another divil!” said he. “There's a whist club
of 'em mateing here to-night. And they'll drink melted
lead over their cards. Howly Vargin and St. Pater! kape
Paddy Pence out of their stakes!”
The knocker was sounded again.
“Another divil! There's at layst a dizen in the club!
Och, Patrick Pence! if there's ony sprangs in yer legs,
let 'em do good sarvice now, or they'll niver be of any vally
to ye aftherwards!” And, saying this, he sprang away,
and ran with great speed up the river toward the Ferry-House.
When he reached the corner of Main Street, he
was met by young Ben Shephard, who accosted him.
“Are the witches after you, Paddy?” asked the youth.
“A whole club of divils! They're mating at the governor's
house.”
“If that's it, they can't be chasing you. Come in and
take a glass of cideroil, and that will raise your spirits.”
“Sperits, Misther Ben! Don't mintion 'em. But if you
can let me have a glass of brandy or rum, I'll pay ye
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to-morrow afthernoon.” Paddy drank the liquor, and then
hastened back to his master's house, panting, but not so
pale as he had been.
When he presented himself in the apartment where Julia,
Charles, and Mr. Schooley were sitting, words rolled rapidly
from his tongue. He said he had not only heard the
devils, but he had seen them. The tips of their fingers
were like the points of red-hot pokers, and their breath
against the door made a black mark like burnt gunpowder.
“Thee has been drinking, I fear, Paddy,” said Mr.
Schooley.
“Bless yer honour's sowl, I've not tasted a dhrop the
howl day, and I'll take me Bible-oath on it!”
“No oaths in my presence, Patrick, or thee must leave
my service without a character. Answer me truly. Thee
says thee has drunk nothing during the day. Has thee
not been drinking to-night?”
“Only a dhrop I tasted to-night at owld Ben Shephard's—
and that was afther I saw the divils and the witches.
Your honour may belave me—it's thrue, ivery word!”
Just then a rapping was heard at the door.
“Go, now, Patrick,” said Mr. Schooley, “and see who
comes hither at this hour.”
“Plase yer honour,” said Paddy, his knees knocking together,
“it's one of the divils! I know his knock. And
he's afther me for promising to pay Ben Shephard for the
dhrink to-morrow afthernoon, whin I will be on the road to
Jenny Jump! Misther Charles! Miss Julia! Wud ye not,
one o' ye, oblage me wid the loan of a thrippence to pay it?”
“Yes, Paddy,” said Charles, holding forth the coin.
“And wud ye not bind me to yerself foriver by paying
it to him for me?”
“Who?”
“The divil.”
“Nonsense, Patrick!” said Mr. Schooley. “Go to the
door! Does thee not hear the rapping?”
“Hear it? It sounds like the last thrump which is to
waken the dead! Howly Vargin presarve us!”
“Go to the door, I tell thee!”
Paddy spasmodically rushed into the hall, and, throwing
open the street-door, concealed himself behind it. He stood
there some moments, but no one entered. Presently Mr.
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Schooley came into the hall with a light, and, seeing no
one, endeavoured to close the door, which, however, was
held back by Paddy.
“What is thee doing behind there?” asked the old gentleman.
“And who knocked?”
“Who knocked? Sure it was the divil!”
“Pooh! Close the door. But some one did knock; and
I suppose he got tired waiting for thee.”
“And, plase yer honour, I hope he'll niver return,” replied
Paddy, shutting the door and bolting it. But this
had hardly been completed before three distinct raps were
heard again.
“Now open it,” said Mr. Schooley.
“It's the divil, yer honour; and he don't git tired waiting;
but he niver forgits to remember who he's afther!”
“Do thou hold the light, and I will open the door,” said
Mr. Schooley. It was done; but, no one appearing in
view, up or down the pavement, or across the street, Mr.
Schooley seemed very much surprised.
“Plase yer honour, he's vanished into thin air, and ye
naadn't look for him.” Mr. Schooley made no reply, and
was proceeding to close the door, when three more knocks,
the vibrations of which could be distinctly felt, were
sounded while he still held the knob in his hand.
“The divil agin!” said Paddy. “The club's adjourned
to our house!”
Mr. Schooley, adjusting his spectacles, peered once more
into the street; and, stepping out to the curb, stood some
moments in silence. And when he turned to re-enter, the
handle of the knocker was lifted, by some invisible means,
before his face, and rapped quite as startlingly as ever!
“Murther! I felt his breath on me chake!” cried Paddy,
letting the candle fall, and rushing back into the room
where Charles and Julia were sitting.
He was followed by Thomas, whose face was paler than
usual, and whose eyes stared wildly through the glasses of
his spectacles.
“No one is there,” said he. “I don't understand it.
Thee may go to bed, Patrick.”
“Plase yer honour, I'm afraid,” said Paddy.
Charles and Julia were quite composed, for they knew
Skippie was the author of the contrivance.
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“Thee may satisfy thyself,” said Mr. Schooley to
Charles, hearing the rapping again.
Charles went to the door, and, hearing a rustling among
the branches of the large tree that stood at the curb,
looked up and recognised Skippie.
“Ask him now!” whispered Skippie.
“Ask for what?” demanded Charles.
“Julia. Consent!”
“Come down, and go to your room at the hotel,” said
Charles. “No more of this nonsense. I want none of
your aid.” Then, after a brief examination of the knocker,
he discovered a line of white hairs, from a horse's tail,
reaching from the handle of the knocker to the tree. This
he snapped asunder, and re-entered.
“It was an idle boy's trick,” said he, in answer to the
inquiring eyes of Mr. Schooley. “Adieu, Julia,” he continued;
“we will start early in the morning, and should be
at rest now.”
“Howld! Misther Charles, if ye plase!” said Paddy,
following the young man through the hall, and endeavouring
to detain him.
“Go to bed, Paddy,” said Charles, “and be up early
in the morning. There will be no more knocking to-night.”
“And did ye saa him, and have ye his word for it?”
“No matter; you will not be troubled again. Go to
bed, and think no more about it.”
“But me drames, Misther Charles!—they'll come back
in me drames, and—” Charles was gone.
About the same hour that Charles retired to rest, a muffled
individual emerged from the tavern, and, turning westward,
proceeded along what is now Broad Street; but at
that time there were no houses west of Main Street excepting
the church and parsonage. The solitary nocturnal pedestrian,
passing the Quaker graveyard, entered Wood
Street and directed his steps toward the river. When he
reached the gate in the rear of the governor's mansion, he
paused and reconnoitred the avenues in the vicinity.
Taking a key from his vest-pocket, Mr. Franklin—for it
was the late royal governor, a fair, fat man of forty—entered
the garden. Breathing freely, for he deemed himself
now in a place of security, he lingered a moment gazing at
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the loveliness of the scene, which it was quite impossible for
him to abandon without regret.
By means of another key he entered the rear-door of the
mansion, and was embraced by the tall gray-haired woman
in charge of the premises.
“My mother!”
“My son!”
These were the words uttered.
“You must go with me to New York, mother,” said he.
“No, I shall remain. Such is the will of your father.”
“But if his will be done, mother, what will become of
me? However, it won't be done! The cause he is embarked
in is a hopeless one, and, as your affection for him
can never be eradicated, it might be in your power to serve
him if you resided near the head-quarters of the royal
army. Depend upon it, he will require our interposition to
save him from destruction.”
“No more of that, William,” said she, with a sigh.
“Your father knows best, and it is my duty to be governed
by his direction.”
“Then be it so, good mother! But the papers! the
letters!” he continued, following his parent into the
library.
“Here they are,” said she, taking a large packet from a
table on which a small lamp was dimly burning.
“Are all of them here? I have not time to examine
them.”
“All. But why not destroy your father's letters?”
“I shall have use for them, perhaps, in my efforts to
save him. If not, mother, they shall never be used to his
injury.”
“I hope not, my son! And, if they be properly interpreted,
they could not be. Whatever Lord Bute may
allege to the contrary, I have the best reason to know he
was always true to the cause of liberty.”
“Liberty! Mother, do I not enjoy as much liberty as
my father?”
“I think not. He never skulked about in the night to
avoid identification.”
“But if he were to venture within our lines he would do
the same thing.”
“He will never go to the British—
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“Enough, mother. Time is precious, and I must be on
the road before morning. Has Mr. Schooley come?”
“No; I hear the signal now. That is the low rap.”
She glided, feeling her way, through the dark hall, and
a moment after returned, leading in Friend Thomas, who
was greeted in a very friendly manner by the ex-governor.
“I am glad to see thee looking so well, William, and in
such high spirits. I trust thee is cheered by the prospects
ahead.”
“Certainly. During the year both Philadelphia and
New York will be in possession of his Majesty's troops, and
it will go hard if I am not restored to my office, New Jersey
lying between those cities.”
“It would seem so, indeed, friend William. But thee
must rely upon the royal troops; thee cannot count upon
efficient aid from the citizens.”
“Then the citizens, as you call them, will have no special
claims on me when I am restored.”
“Dost thou mean, William, that thy restoration will be a
cancellation of thy debts?”
“No. Ha! ha! ha! I owe thee a thousand pounds,
Thomas, borrowed money, which I will repay.”
“I never could doubt thy honesty, William; and I hope
thee intends to pay me to-night.”
“Not a stiver! I have no money, and will not have any
until the war is over.”
“What? Does thee say thee has no money? Why didst
thou, then, write me to meet thee here?” Thomas was much
surprised, and deeply disappointed.
“I desired information and assistance.”
“Thee gets no more assistance from me!”
“I mean assistance for the king. I hope you will not
deny his authority.”
“Thee knows I am loyal; but I will not fight. I can do
nothing for or against either party. All I desire is to be
permitted to rest in peace.”
“You can tell me how the influential men are affected,
and what is the sentiment of the other classes.”
“Thee knows as much as I do. The people are divided,
and are required at home to keep each other in order.”
“Good news that, Thomas! The rebels have no money,
and cannot long maintain an army if the people are equally
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divided. But we must be fed. We want another hundred
head of cattle. Can you fill the contract?”
“I shall have some beef-steers and fatted dry-cows for
sale. They will be driven to the Hudson in the night to
avoid the robbers roving by day. I shall ask so much per
head in gold, and I will not inquire whether the purchaser be
Whig or Tory.”
“And you can add fifty per cent. to their value and consider
one-half of my indebtedness liquidated.”
“I must do no such thing, William. If my price is too
much, no one is bound to make the purchase. But thee has
something else to say.”
“Yes. When we are again in possession of the Jerseys,
you must come back and reside in the civilized portion of
the State. All the settlements near the head-waters of the
Delaware will be destroyed by the Indians. Brandt and
the Butlers have been charged with that service. The
Sachem is furious. He has learned that his sister was
murdered by the men under the command of the young
rebel who levies contributions from thee and other true
loyalists near the Gap, and who, it is said, is to wed thy
rich ward.”
“William, it is all untrue — untrue from beginning to
end, as I verily believe. My ward says it was a Seneca
Indian, obeying the command of the old woman called
Queen Esther, who fired the fatal shot. And Julia never
lies.”
“But we must not discredit the other story. We must
say nothing on the subject. We are at war, you know.”
“I am at peace with all men.”
“Nonsense! If you be at peace with his Majesty's enemies,
you make yourself his enemy. You will need his
clemency and protection to retain your estates, after this
ward of thine has married the young rebel officer:—and he,
too, the son of Lochiel! Why has not Bonnel Moody
seized him? Why have you, as a magistrate, not had him
arrested? Thomas, these things will be against thee when
peace is restored.”
“I have resigned my commission, William.”
“And that was right!” said the old lady.
“It was not accepted!” said her son.
“But that man has more friends than the King in our
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neighbourhood. I don't know where they come from,” continued
Thomas, “but I tell thee the truth. He cannot be
taken. Whenever he is assaulted, the Scots come from
every quarter to defend him.”
“Well, get thee out of the neighbourhood before the
savages arrive! They will overwhelm every thing, like the
lava from a volcano!”
“Thee knows our people have nothing to fear from the
Indians,” said Thomas, “and I shall remain in the country
till peace be restored.”
“That is right!” said the old lady. “And I don't
think King George will ever reign over this people again.”
“You don't know any thing about it, mother!” said her
son, evincing the impatience and displeasure he felt.
“But thy father does. He was never mistaken in his
predictions.”
“I am sorry to hear thee say so,” said Thomas, musing,
for he attached great importance to the opinions of the
elder Franklin, with whom he was well acquainted, and
with whom he had held several discussions on the subject
of negro emancipation, Thomas being the owner of valuable
slaves.
“He says France will assist the Colonies, and advises all
persons who have estates not to imperil them by joining a
doomed party.”
“Mother,” cried her son, “no more of this! I am the
President of the Associated Loyalists, and have better
means of judging than my father in France. One-half the
people in Jersey are loyal.”
“They were, William, until you set Fenton and other
freebooters to robbing and burning!”
“They merely retaliate on the rebels who have ravaged
my farm on the Rancocas.”
“That was after you had Richard Stockton seized and
thrown into prison.”
“All the enemies of the King should be seized. We'll
have Stevens and Livingston next! But I must away!
Friend Thomas, if you would partake of the fruits of our
victory, you must contribute something to produce it.
Confer with your people—”
“We can do nothing, William.”
“Enough! The sword will decide every thing. Then
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there will be a day of reckoning! But learn that within
a month the royal armies in the Colonies will number at
least forty thousand men. Washington has not ten thousand!
Choose ye between them!”
“No! Thee cannot make me choose either. I prefer
the reaping-hook to the sword. But, William, canst thou
not pay me in part—”
“Not a stiver, now! I have not money enough to pay
for a dinner, as your man at the hotel can bear witness.”
“But has thee not some plate—”
“Yes, on Staten Island! If you will call there, you
may take it.”
“Ah, William! I fear—”
“Yes, fear and tremble, and thus work out your salvation.”
“Farewell, William! When we next meet, I hope thee
will be in a better humour.”
“And in a better condition to pay the debt. Farewell;
but do not desert the royal cause!”
“Thee need not fear that, even if I lose the thousand
pounds.”
“The hope of regaining the thousand pounds will, I
think, contribute to keep you faithful to his Majesty.”
“Thee may think what thee pleases! But I will not
rebuke thee. Farewell.”
And Thomas departed, while Franklin hummed the
verses from Shakspeare's Macbeth, beginning, “When
shall we three meet again?”
CHAPTER XX.
JENNY JUMP—RETURN OF THE PRISONERS—BATTLE AT
THE INN.
Leaving to the imagination of the reader the meeting
of Kate and Julia and Solo—of Charles with his father,
and Paddy with everybody—and the effect the narration
of their adventures had upon the minds of the neighbours,—
it will be necessary, without delay, to proceed to scenes of
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a different nature, and to use the utmost privilege of condensation
to confine them within the limits prescribed.
One day, when Julia and Kate and Charles were sitting
under the broad boughs of the old council-tree, in the
quiet little valley where the lovers' vows had been exchanged
the preceding year, they were startled by the
sudden barking of Solo, who had been panting at their
feet. But, upon observing the faithful sentinel wag his
tail, they were satisfied no enemy lurked in the vicinity;
and, a moment after, they beheld Calvin, the young
Delaware chief, slowly and gloomily approaching. His
form was wasted, and his eyes deep sunken in his head.
“My brother!” said Charles, stepping forth and tendering
his hand to the young man. He grasped it in silence,
and then saluted the ladies in the same melancholy manner.
After this strange proceeding the young chief occupied the
seat which had been offered him, and, sighing deeply, remained
with his eyes fixed upon the ground. His affection
for the lost Thrush being known and respected, no one desired
to make allusion to the mournful catastrophe.
“You do not come as an enemy, I am sure,” said Kate,
“or else the faithful Solo would have resisted your approach.”
“No,” said the Delaware; “the Wilted Grass lies on
the silent grave. It is no longer among the dewy buds.
The spring and summer of its existence have passed away.
The blossoms have fallen, and the sweetest flower of the
forest hath faded! It can never again lift up its head.
Speak to one another, laugh, and be happy. As for me,
regard me as one perished from the earth!”
“No!” said Julia, “you must learn to forget the woes
of the past; be strong of heart and cheerful of spirit.”
“Among the men of our race,” said Kate, “with whom
you have lived and been educated, it is not usual to die of
grief when a loved object vanishes.”
“No,” said Calvin, his head still drooping; “they are
like the fowls of the barn-yard. But I am as the lonely
dove of the forest, perched upon a blasted tree, waiting in
vain for the mate whose breast has been pierced by some
cruel sportsman.”
“But you will meet in heaven,” said Julia.
“Ay—and I would go thither without delay.”
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“We must submit without complaining to the will of
God,” said Charles. “But tell me, Calvin, is it true the
Mohawks believe that I or one of my party winged the
fatal messenger?”
“The Senecas say so, and Queen Esther asserts it. The
Oneidas alone deny it. Gentle Moonlight, your foster-mother,
is a raving maniac, ever calling upon you to save
the Thrush from the arrows of Queen Esther!”
“I feared so!” said Charles, sadly. “But the Senecas,
who perpetrated the deed, and their demoniac queen, who
demanded the sacrifice, shall pay the penalty! Will you
not go with me and my company into Tryon county?”
“No. I am going home to die. Or, if the Great Spirit
will not permit me to perish in my youth, I will bury myself
in the Cedar Swamp, where neither wars nor the rumours
of wars can reach me.”
“But the rest?—can you tell me what has become of my
faithful Scots and Van Wiggens and Peter Shaver?”
“There!” said Calvin, pointing in the direction of the
Delaware River. And, to the great joy of Charles, Wilted
Grass informed him that the whole party had escaped from
the Indian villages, with some twenty Oneidas, and were
then approaching the settlement. He had left them in the
morning at the river, and parted with them merely to announce
their coming.
And, having performed his mission, the stricken youth
rose up and vanished in the forest. He did not pause when
they besought him to remain, nor answered a word to their
entreaties.
The girls and Charles hastened away to announce the
tidings. The news was received with stoical indifference at
the house of Mr. Schooley, where Kate was now sojourning
with Julia. Richard was the overseer, and neither Van
Wiggens nor Peter Shaver ever managed the farm to a
better purpose than he.
But the tidings of the return of Hugh McSwine and his
little band of Caledonians afforded very great satisfaction
to the “Gentle Lochiel,” the recluse father of Charles.
Nevertheless, his bleached locks seemed to assume a more
silvery aspect and his face a more deathly pallor as he
gazed upon his son's preparations to march away again in
obedience to an order from Colonel Dayton to join him
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with his company at Fort Schuyler, in Tryon county, New
York.
“Charles,” said he, “beware of the warning! It was
the same that appeared to me in Scotland. Never agree to
any capitulation with a faithless foe. Such were the
words.”
“You do not seriously believe in such things, my father,”
said Charles; “and I am sure it was but a feverish
dream.”
“Wizards are spoken of in the Bible and in the writings
of Shakspeare. I spurned the warning before the day of
blood on the field of Culloden. If I did not die, I fell.
We may doubt, but not deny. May God shield you! For
myself, my time is nearly spent.”
Charles did all he could to cheer his desponding parent,
and, prevailing on him to recount some of the romantic adventures
of Charles Edward when a fugitive, he beheld
once more the flashing eyes of the Highland chieftain.
In the afternoon the news of the approach of the returning
prisoners, accompanied by twenty Oneida Indians,
having spread for miles round, the inhabitants of the entire
neighbourhood assembled in front of Mrs. Van Wiggens's
tavern, now a famous stopping-place, to witness their
arrival.
Mrs. Van Wiggens was very nervous, sometimes apparently
gay and lively, and at others musing and abstracted.
She was doing well enough alone. She had mourned her
husband's loss without weeping, and had quite recovered
from the effects of the deprivation. But now the wound
was opened afresh, and Van Wiggens himself, having survived
amid incredible dangers, was approaching, alive and
in good health.
Julia and Kate sat in the carriage before the door of the
inn, where they had been joined by Charles. Paddy held
the reins. The drum and fife and bagpipe were heard
down in the hollow, where Murphy had marched the company
of patriots to welcome the wanderers and conduct
them to the place under a spreading oak, where an ox had
been slaughtered for their benefit. This was the contribution
of the Whigs of the vicinity.
The first individual of the returning party who made his
appearance at the inn was the little stump-tailed dog,
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Watch, who was recognised and received with a burst of
laughter. He ran into the blacksmith-shop and smelt at
the knee of his master's negro.
“Is dat you, Watch?” exclaimed Sambo, his eyes
twinkling and his uplifted arm suspended over the anvil.
Watch bounded away, and was met on the steps of the
rude porch in front of the inn by Mrs. Van Wiggens's large
black tomcat, whose swollen tail and arched back indicated
the nature of the reception the dog was to have within.
But Watch had crushed the bones of too many coons and
other animals in the woods, to be easily repulsed by a domesticated
“varmint,” and that, too, on the threshold of
his own premises. So he accepted the proffered battle,
and, springing upon his foe, which was nearly as large as
himself, but not so experienced in desperate warfare, filled
the air with canine and carnivorous sounds, while the fur
flew in every direction.
“It's my cat! my poor Tom!” exclaimed Mrs. Van Wiggens,
rushing forth, broomstick in hand, and striving in vain
to part the combatants. As often as she lifted the stick to
decide the conflict, Watch shifted his position; so that, when
the instrument was about to descend, the black cat was
either uppermost or occupying the place the dog had held
the moment before.
“Mercy on us!” once cried the frightened hostess, when
she had made a determined rush upon the struggling animals,
and Watch, avoiding the broomstick, rolled over with
the cat and continued the combat under the protecting
shelter of the strong linsey-woolsey gown of his mistress.
Mrs. Van Wiggens sprang aside, and, with a glowing face,
aimed a random blow, which fell upon poor Tom's head and
terminated the battle. He was stunned, but not killed;
and Watch would have given him another shake, had he
not been prevented by his master, who stepped forward
and lifted him up in his arms.
“The nasty dog!” cried Mrs. Van Wiggens. “Do kill
him for me, Mr. Indian.”
“Tam'd if I do! Poor Vatch!”
“Why, whose voice is that?” cried Mrs. Van Wiggens,
rushing forward, and gazing in the face of her husband.
“Is this you, Mr. Van Wiggens, coming home painted and
dressed like a savage? And to bring back the impudent
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dog which couldn't be killed, like yourself! Yes, it is you!
But the paint hides your blush of shame. And what did
you go off for? Why did you abandon your family—”
“Tam it, stop! Stop a minute! You said vamily—vamily!—
vat vamily's you got? My vamily never vas!”
“Oh, you needn't fire up so! And you must bring back
the nasty dog! You know how I hate him! He'll steal
the meat off the gridiron! You know I hate a dog and a
bear!”
Mrs. Van Wiggens had once been almost suffocated by a
huge pet-bear, and ever afterward that animal was the
most terrible of all others.
“Vell,” said Van Wiggens, “I've brung you von nice
bear. Lead him here, Peter.”
Peter Shaver, likewise habited as an Indian, came forward,
leading a half-grown bear, whose eyes seemed to
glisten with delight on seeing the horror-stricken hostess.
He stood up on his hind-feet, his arms asunder, as if desirous
of embracing his mistress.
Mrs. Van Wiggens screamed, and trembled violently.
She besought her lord, to whom she promised entire submission,
to send the horrid beast away.
“Vell,” said Van Wiggens, “I'll have him painted first
on de sign—and de sign shall pe te bear and te anvil.
And you mustn't take it down agin.”
And subsequently this sign became famous among travellers
in that region.
During this brief scene it may be supposed that the
young ladies in the carriage were highly entertained, and
readily espoused the side of the husband.
But the general joy was cut short by the arrival of runners
from New York and Pennsylvania, with the information
that the Butlers and Brandt, led by St. Leger, were
approaching from Canada, and, if the forts on the frontier
were not quickly manned and bravely defended, the whole
region between the Susquehanna and the Delaware, and
on both sides of those rivers, would be overrun and ravaged
by the Indians and Tories.
No time was to be lost. Disgusted at his own reception,
and the manner in which his dog had been welcomed
back, Van Wiggens was the first of the returned party who
offered to march with Charles. But, subsequently, nearly
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all who had been in the wild woods with our hero, as well as
the small party of Oneidas, enrolled themselves in his company.
And, as each announced his purpose, Tim Murphy
had the occasion signalized by a grand roll of the drum.
“I am almost tempted to volunteer myself,” said Kate;
“and I believe, if I were not here to keep her company,
Julia could not be prevented from going.”
“She has been accustomed to see her defenders in the
act of fighting,” said Charles; “and no doubt her presence
has given additional vigour to many a sinewy arm. We
shall miss her. But she will—both if you will—think of
us and utter prayers for our success. We shall be defending
you still; and it is better to meet the enemy at the first
outposts than to resist them here. The forts once fallen,
this would cease to be a place of security. But we shall
probably return very soon. There will be no long sieges.”
We must now pass over many historical events in which
some of our characters were conspicuous actors, but which
are not embraced within the limited scope of this narrative.
The fall of Herkimer, the timidity of Woolsey, the venial
tardiness of Van Rensselaer, and the alternate successes
and disasters in the North, the reader must be already sufficiently
familiar with. Charles Cameron, Hugh McSwine,
and Tim Murphy, performed their duty in all the conflicts in
which they were engaged with the enemy in fort or field,
and received the commendations of their superior officers.
Nevertheless, the tide of invasion was not driven back.
Although Sullivan destroyed the Indian villages and crops
on the lakes, and although Burgoyne was under the necessity
of surrendering to Gates, yet Philadelphia had fallen,
and the enemy possessed the two principal cities in the
Colonies and commanded all the harbours.
It was at such a time, when the more densely-populated
districts were paralyzed by the presence of overwhelming
numbers of the British and Hessians, that the dark stream
of sanguinary savages poured down the Susquehanna and
Delaware valleys, and ravaged all the Western borders.
And during the absence of the Jersey volunteers from
the counties of Hunterdon, Warren, and Sussex, Bonnel
Moody, with his band of robber Tories, committed many
depredations on the unresisting inhabitants, consisting
mostly of old men, women, and children.
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But the young ladies continued for some time to enjoy
an exemption from molestation at Thomas Schooley's
house.
And Paddy, with spade in hand, was content to fight
his battles in the garden; while Richard, tired of the delays
dictated by Judith Carlisle, who loved him not, and
whose father, it seemed, had other projects in view as his
fortunes rose, again sought to win the hand of Julia, to the
infinite diversion of Kate. The hum of Mary's wheel was
incessant in the parlour, and the bang of the loom, propelled
by a negro woman, vibrated from the adjoining shed
without.
Nevertheless, the repose of Mr. Schooley's household was
doomed to a sad interruption, as will be seen in the next
chapter.
CHAPTER XXI.
THE SETTLEMENT INVADED BY THE INDIANS—ASTONISHING
FEATS OF PADDY AND MRS. VAN WIGGENS.
The Indians, if they did not make night-assaults, prowled
about in the day, killing their enemies and destroying such
property as they could not bear away. The Tories, desirous
of escaping detection when the next turn of Fortune's
wheel might dim the lustre of the cause they espoused, contrived
to keep out of view as much as possible. But their
depredations and cruelties after sunset were awful.
Skippie, who saw every thing if he spoke nothing, had
been well advised of the approaching tempest, and gave
his chief early information of Moody's contemplated attack.
And the Gentle Lochiel had invited Julia and Kate to
take shelter within his strong walls, until the company of
patriots, commanded by his son, whose absence had been
protracted, should return to the neighbourhood. The girls,
under injunctions of secresy, had been previously admitted
within the hidden chambers; and therefore, when the summons
came, accompanied by the intelligence that the Indians
(a detachment that passed the forts and descended
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the rivers) had murdered Colonel Allen in his bed, and a
whole family by the name of Wells, even tomahawking and
scalping the infant children, they obeyed with alacrity.
It was in vain that Mr. Schooley objected; and Mr. Green
and others, who were ignorant of the nature of the asylum
tendered them, besought them not to take refuge under the
roof of a proscribed exile. The Moravians—those that
remained, being few in number—offered such sanctuary
as their structures afforded, and vainly supposed their precincts
would be respected by the Tory as well as by the
Indian.
Kate and Julia were hastening away with Skippie, when
Mary Schooley's wheel ceased its humming sound, and the
old lady made a last adjuration as follows:—
“Thee will be scandalized forever! Thee must pause
and reflect. Thee should be aware that to be shut up in a
lonely place with a man—”
“I will go, Mary!” said Julia, with decision and firmness.
“Dr. Odell, if he were here, would sanction our
temporary abode with that pure gray-haired old man.
And it seems to me that the pure of heart could never
imagine any ill proceeding from such a source. We may
confide in our fathers, I think, with quite as much security
as in the usual gossiping guardians of the public morality.
Come, Kate!”
“But thee must not return—” began Mary, when she
was checked by Thomas.
“Not return!” cried Julia, thoroughly aroused; “and
why not? Is not this house, this estate, mine? Come,
Solo!”
“If the King will suffer thee to have it,” was the only
reply that reached the ear of the offended girl, who uttered
not another word, but hastened away, followed by Richard,
who had become more desperately in love than ever. But
she did not heed him. Kate, however, pretended to admire
the slighted young man, and derived much amusement from
his perplexities.
The girls had not been gone more than a few hours,
before Paddy ran in from the garden.
“They're coming, yer honour, they're coming!” cried he;
“and I know they're tomahawking and sculping the paple
on the way, for they are the bloody Senecas!”
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“How does thee know that?” demanded Mr. Schooley.
“Has thee seen them?”
“No, yer honour, but I heard the jackass!”
“The jackass!”
“Yes, Pater Shaver's jackass; Popcorn's jackass.”
“Thee knows Peter is with the wicked men of blood in
the Northern forts.”
“But the Senecas, with Pater's ass, are here—here, I tell
ye!—and yonder they come through the orchard! Och,
murther! I'll hide! They may spare you, but I know
they'd kill me!”
And Paddy ran out through the back door, and into the
loom-house, and concealed himself in the loft, where a few
planks were laid loosely over the joists.
When the foremost of the Indians leaped over the fence
into the yard, the fat old Rose, who was to have attended
her mistress, but contrived delays, as usual, was met by
them as she emerged from the kitchen with her packs and
bundles.
The leader of the Indians ordered her to put down her
burden, and, being neither comprehended nor obeyed,
he attempted to snatch the articles out of her herculean
arms.
“No you don't, you nasty mulatto! Clar out, and mind
your business, or Massa Charles'll be arter you!”
“Charles! He come back?” said the Indian, still grasping
a bundle.
“None o' your business! Let go!” she continued, and,
making a violent effort, hurled the savage some ten feet
distant, his shoulder coming first in contact with the earth,
to the infinite amusement of his party.
“Dern!” cried the infuriated Indian, using one of the
expletives of the white man; and, springing up, aimed his
tomahawk at Rose's head. It sank into one of the bundles
of clothing without doing her any injury. But it
damaged her mistress's wardrobe, and roused the fury of
the faithful old servant. So, seizing the glittering instrument,
she hurled it back at the leader of the savages. It
flew wide of the mark, but penetrated the forehead of one
of the dusky laughing spectators. He fell, pierced to the
brain, amid the vengeful yells of his companions. In an
instant poor Rose was perforated with half a dozen
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rifleballs, and expired without a groan,—her large white eyes
still open, and her brow contracted.
Thomas and Mary, having witnessed these bloody feats
from the window, were painfully shocked, but still apprehended
no danger themselves.
“How do?” said the chief, entering the house, and followed
by most of his companions.
“I hope thee is well,” said Thomas; “but thee should
not have killed the old woman. Thee should have sought
justice before the civil tribunals. Thee—”
“Stop them, Thomas! Dost thou not see them splitting
the oak chest?” cried Mary, whose wheel hummed spasmodically,
and the thread was broken.
“I am a friend of the King, as thee has no doubt heard,”
continued Thomas.
“Me no hear!” was the angry reply of the Indian.
“I tell thee I am loyal; and we have been preparing
food for thee. Sit down and eat. Call back thy band;
they are killing my woman in the loom-house! Thee must
not permit such acts!”
“Me no come to eat. Me come for scalps!” said the
Indian.
“But thee must not hurt thy friends.”
“Friends' scalp too. You no scalp our enemies. You
no friend. Me take your scalp.”
“No, no; thee will do no such thing. Let us save the
woman in the loom-house. Thee must not permit them to
kill her!”
And Thomas, despite the threatening attitude of the Indian,
led the way into the loom-house, where he was followed,
and quickly surrounded by the savages.
The negro woman, who had been weaving, lay bleeding
before him, tomahawked and scalped; and there Thomas
himself, and Mary, pale and speechless with terror, were
rudely seized.
“Thee will suffer for this deed!” said Thomas. “Do
not tremble, Mary. They will not harm thee. They merely
want our money.”
“Money! where is it?” demanded the chief, whose arm
had only been withheld until he could obtain such intelligence.
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“It is not thine, and thee shall not have it!” said
Thomas.
“Oh, let them have it!” said Mary, recovering her speech.
“They will then spare us!”
“No!” was the savage reply; and the Indian would his
hand in her long gray hair.
“Thee will all suffer for this outrage!” said Thomas.
This threat only precipitated matters. Several tomahawks
were uplifted to dispatch the victims; and Thomas,
seeing no relenting symptoms in the countenances of his
captors, cried, “Come down! come, Paddy, to the rescue!”
The savages looked up. Paddy, in petrified horror, had
been gazing down. He was now incapable of stepping
back out of view; but rather, in the terrible fascination of
the moment, like the bird when falling into the jaws of the
rattlesnake, tottered forward on the loose planks, which
gave way, the ends opposite flying up, and he was precipitated,
with a terrible crash, to the earth. The Indians
yelled and ran out. They supposed a large party of the
enemy were concealed in the loft, and believed Thomas had
led them into an ambuscade; and Paddy's voice sufficed for
the tongues of a dozen men. Seeing them run, he called
on an incredible number of saints to save him. The Indians
believed they were the names of persons really existing,
and then present with rifles in their hands; and so
they fled away and sought shelter in the woods.
“Thee has saved us!” said Mary, seizing the hand of
Paddy, which still trembled.
“Howly Pater and Paul!” cried he, “I thank ye both!
It was the blissed saints, yer honour,” he continued, addressing
Thomas, who stood staring at his weltering slave. “The
howly church has saved us; and I hope yer honour will go
to mass for it!”
“Thee knows not what thee says,” was the response of
Thomas. “It was not thy saints nor thy valour, but my
presence of mind, which saved us.”
“Och, murther! Be me sowl, I'll niver do a great
action agin! Sich ingratitude and vanity! And did not
Paddy himself put 'em to flight like King David did Goliah
and his hosts?”
“Nonsense, Patrick! Don't stand there repeating those
old fictions. Thee must be active. Go for Mr. Green—”
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“Misther Grane? He's gone himself, sir!”
“Where?”
“Plase yer honour, you forgit what he said yisterday.”
“Thee speaks the truth now; I did forget. He said he
would go to some block-house, and I should have gone with
him.”
“As I was saying, yer honour, the howly saints took pity
on us, and tilted up the planks—”
“Thee must not talk such nonsense, Patrick. Thee must
help me to bury this woman. Dig a grave in the orchard.”
“But I hope yer honour will niver deny that I saved you
and Misthress Schooley from an awful death—”
“Patrick, thee is trembling yet!”
“Trembling, is it? No, yer honour, it's hate!”
“Hate? thee must not hate any one.”
“Hate onybody? that isn't it. I mane hate o' the
blood—choler—passion. Me blood is byling with hate!
And did I not rush down in the middle and surround 'em?
Plase answer me that, Mr. Schooley! And it'll be a tale
to be towld in the chimbley-corners o' winter nights after
Paddy's flesh is grass! And I'm only sorra I didn't kill
more uv 'em!”
“Thee has been much with the Indians,” said Mary,
“and thee ought to know what that noise means.”
“That,” said Paddy, listening to the yells down the valley
in the direction of Mrs. Van Wiggens's inn, “is the
murthering-halloo; and they'll be back agin for our
sculps! so, Mrs. Schooley, if ye'll take an ould Indian-fighter's
advice, you'll get Mr. Schooley's money and be
off to the bushes widout losing a minute. I'll pilot ye
through the woods to the Moravian church—”
“No, thee shall do no such thing,” said Thomas. “If
the episcopal mummery of those people can save them, the
higher spirits within our own bosoms must suffice for us, as
they have already rescued us once.”
“Divil the fear they have of ony sperits! It was
Paddy's arm that made 'em run.”
“Patrick, thee forgets thyself!” said Mr. Schooley,
nevertheless hastening to save his money; and, when it was
obtained, they set out toward the block-house.
The Indian accidentally killed by Rose was buried with
great care by his comrades, so that his body might not be
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found and the scalp torn from his head. The greensward,
after being cut smoothly round, was lifted aside, and replaced
when the body was deposited in the earth, so that
no one could have discovered the grave. Nevertheless, the
slain savage did not appear to be a man of much importance
among his fellows, for their mirth and laughter, when
they recounted the events at Mr. Schooley's house, seemed
very hearty. However, they made no unnecessary delay
in their progress, and the next place they visited was Mrs.
Van Wiggens's establishment. They appeared first before
the blacksmith's shop. There was a Mr. Van Etten (and
Mrs. Van Wiggens seemed to have a partiality for Dutchmen)
employed to shoe horses and mend ploughs during
Van Wiggens's absence; and this man saw the Indians
when approaching, guided by the sound of the negro's
hammer on the anvil.
“Indians! Stop dat blaw-mock,” (bellows,) said he,
hurriedly, addressing the negro. “Dey von't hurt you,
Sambo; tam it, you stay here, viles I climb up de
chimbley.”
The negro, terror-stricken, seemed incapable of disobedience.
The Indians came in and gazed round. They
looked under the bench and behind the bellows, but did not
see the one they were in quest of. Van Etten had been a
famous Indian-fighter in the former war, and was well
known to them.
“Where Van Etten?” demanded the leader, seizing the
negro by the shoulder.
“Gone!” said Sambo, recollecting his orders; “dar's no
sich man here; he's gone, I tell you, and dat's 'ficient.”
The Indians, amused at the negro's manner, entertained
themselves with an examination of the tools in the shop,
retaining such as they might have use for. One of them,
in imitation of the smith, thrust a bar of iron into the fire,
and, seizing the handle of the bellows, blew vigorously.
The negro, hearing Van Etten sneeze, slapped the Indian
on the arm, and said, as his master had done a few minutes
before, “Stop dat blaw-mock!”
The Indians, diverted at his seeming unconsciousness of
danger, desisted from further annoyance, and, leaving him
in the shop, directed their steps toward the house. The
leader, aware there were no men within, entered first, and
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seeing in the small bar bottles of apple-brandy and Jamaica
rum, could not resist his inclination to take a dram.
It was when the bottle was at his mouth that Mrs. Van
Wiggens entered from the dining-room. Supposing the
brawny savage to be her lawfully-wedded husband, returned
from the war, she said nothing; but, seizing the
broom, and approaching on tiptoe, aimed a blow at his head
with the straw end of it. The Indian, astonished, and
slightly stunned, let the bottle fall, and then, gazing regretfully
a moment at the wasted fluid inundating the floor, fell
into a violent passion.
“Dern!” exclaimed he. “Me—you be dern! White
squaw! Dern me you!”
“How dare you swear at me, Van Wiggens?” cried Mrs.
Van Wiggens.
“Van Wiggens be dern!” cried the Indian. “Me have
white squaw's scalp!” he continued, drawing forth his
tomahawk.
But Mrs. Van Wiggens, perceiving her mistake, turned
the other end of the broom handle, which was of hickory,
and dealt him a blow on the head that brought him to his
knees, and the tomahawk falling from his grasp, she picked
it up. But he arose and rushed forth before she could use
it. She followed him to the door, however, and hurled the
instrument harmlessly after him.
The Indians laughed heartily to see their leader flying
from a squaw; and that little incident induced them to spare
the lives of the negro and his mistress, or at least to postpone
the operation of taking their scalps, and to pursue
the trail of the young girls without further delay.
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CHAPTER XXII.
JULIA AND KATE TAKE REFUGE WITH THE EXILE—THE
CAPTIVES—MOODY'S LAST INCURSION—THE QUAKER'S
MONEY—PADDY'S CONVERSION.
[figure description] Page 294.[end figure description]
“See the poor fawn!” said Julia, pointing to a bleeding
young deer that lay in their path.
“Poor creature!” said Kate; “some cruel man has done
this merely to test his skill!”
“It's fat,” said Richard, feeling the ribs of the dying
animal.
“And would you be so cruel as to eat the pretty thing?”
asked Kate.
“It is better than a pig, and I'm very fond of them.
Thee would like it, I'm sure.”
“Never! I would not taste the flesh of that poor—”
“Richard,” said Julia, gazing at the arrow which pierced
the fawn, “leave it! Do you not see it is wounded by an
arrow? It may not have run a mile since the shaft was
winged at its side, and its bloody trail may be followed by
the Indian that wounded it!”
Neither Kate nor Richard had thought of that; and,
abandoning the fawn, the party lost no time in reaching
Tower Rock—the name bestowed on the abode of the aged
exile.
Richard, declining the invitation to tarry, bade the girls,
and particularly Julia, a doleful farewell. And Kate, when
she extended her hand in parting, archly imitated the desponding
gestures of the sighing lover. Richard departed
bewildered and bewitched; for the girls, when mischievously
inclined, certainly do possess the power of enchanting inexperienced
swains.
Poor Richard, ruminating as he retraced the solitary
path, sad and deserted, since the tiny feet of the dear
charmers had abandoned it, forgot the dying fawn and all
other shafts but Cupid's.
Thus enraptured, he paused in the densest part of the
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forest before a large beech-tree, on the rind of which he
distinguished something among the many marks that resembled
a J. Supposing it might be the initial of his lady-love,
he stepped forward and kissed it. It had been meant,
however, for a horseshoe, to indicate that some one, probably
an Indian, had gone in a certain direction on horseback.
And feeling, for the first time in his life, quite
poetical, he drew forth his knife and carved some verses
on the tree.
After finishing the inscription, and when turning mournfully
away, he was confronted by the leader of the Senecas.
“How do?” said the Indian, advancing, and laying his
hand on the shoulder of the astonished youth.
“Thee knows my father—” began Richard.
“No. Don't know him! What's that?” he demanded,
pointing at the inscription. It was a famous writing or
picture tree, which had been used by the savages for many
generations. They could interpret the marks made by
themselves, but those cut by Richard were wholly unintelligible.
“Thee cannot understand it,” said Richard.
“Read—say!” continued the Indian.
Richard obeyed.
“Julia! Antelope!” said the Indian. “He love!”
Then, uttering something aloud in his own language, the
rest of the savages rose up from the tangled bushes, or
emerged from behind the trees, and came forward laughing
heartily at the interpretation of the inscription given
by their leader.
“Thee knows my secret now,” said Richard; “and thee
will not take her away again.”
“Antelope must go! Queen Esther calls her.”
“I tell thee no. She shall not go.”
“She nice squaw. Make me wife.”
“Thee a wife!” said the indignant Richard. “If thee
harms her, or takes her away again, Sir William Howe
shall be informed of it, and he will have thee scourged.”
The Indian sneered at the threat; still, he could not forget
that Sir William was the King's great General. But
he was far away, and dead men could tell no tales. And
yet he felt some hesitation in putting to death those who
professed loyalty to the King, and moreover the
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proverbially peaceful Quakers. Nevertheless, as he paused in
doubt, his anxiety to procure scalps—for which the Indians
received a certain price from the British—almost induced
him to sink his tomahawk into the unoffending head of his
sighing captive. But, recollecting the enterprise was to be
mainly under the direction of Bonnel Moody, who, with
his band of Tories, had appointed the beech-tree as the
place of meeting, he reluctantly desisted. Richard's hands
were bound behind him, and he had no assurance of escaping
death at the stake.
A rustling was heard in the vicinity, and soon after
voices were distinguished. The Indians concealed themselves,
commanding Richard to be silent.
The stragglers drew near, following the narrow path.
“Thee must be lost, Patrick!” said Mr. Schooley, weary,
and with torn garments, supporting his wife.
“Be me sowl, I shouldn't wondher!” said Paddy, leading
the way, and now in full view of the hidden Indians.
“Thee don't know it, though,” said Mary. “Thee has
been to the fort twice, and thee should have learned the
way better. I pray thee, Thomas, let me rest a few
minutes on this fallen tree.”
“Thee shall be gratified, Mary. Patrick,” he continued,
when Mrs. Schooley paused, “thee said thee was quite sure
the path we started in was the right one.”
“Yis, yer honour, I'll be sworn we started right.”
“Swear not at all,” said Mary. “Thee knows it is
wrong.”
“Yis, ma'am. But I could take me oath I thought it
the right one.”
“I hope thee was not mistaken, and that we may be still
in the proper path,” said Thomas.
“And we may soon be there,” said Mary. “Lead on;
I can walk a little farther.”
“It's no use!” said Paddy. “I know we're lost, yer
honour. I know it by the queer fayling I have in me
head. And, be that same token, we shall be saised by the
blackguard savages.”
“Thee had best be silent, Patrick,” said Mr. Schooley.
“I will, yer honour. But, as I was remarking a while
ago, if the Indians should saise us, I hope it will be no
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harm for me to pass for a Quaker, if it be the manes of
saving me life.”
“Use no deception, Patrick,” said Mrs. Schooley, “even
for the sake of saving thy life.”
“But, thin, yer honour,” continued Paddy, appealing to
Mr. Schooley, “I'm about to be in arnest. If it will save
me life, divil take me if Paddy himself don't be as thrue
and sinsare a Quaker as iver drew the breath of life.”
“Thee can neither deceive us nor God,” said Mrs.
Schooley.
“Desaving, is it? I wud scorn to desave onybody but
a blackguard savage, and I hope there'd be no harm in
that. But I'll go to yer matings, wear yer coats, and
spake in thaas and thous, and be as vartuous as ony saint,
if it'll kape the sculp on the top o' me crown.”
“Thee has yet to learn that our religion is not meant to
save our lives, but our souls,” said Mr. Schooley.
“And is that same the thruth? Och! I thought you
wuddn't fight for fear o' gitting kilt! But—murther!
I saa an Indian! Remimber, I'm a Quaker, onyhow!”
The Seneca chief, rising up, advanced toward them, followed
by the rest, who surrounded the weary fugitives.
They made no resistance.
“Thee is the same person we saw this morning,” said
Thomas, gazing at the chief.
“Oh, father!” said Richard, stumbling forward, “is it
thee and my mother I behold?”
“Yea, verily, Richard!” said Mrs. Schooley. “And
why didst thou wander so far away from thy home and
leave thy parents to shift for themselves?”
“So far, mother? It is not far. This is the path leading
from our house to the Tower Rock. Thee is now
almost in sight of thy home.”
“Verily it is true!” said Thomas. “I know that tree.
It is on my land. Thee has been leading us a strange
wild-goose chase, Patrick—”
“Plase yer honour,” said Paddy, “don't use me name in
this company. Thee knows I have been lading meself as
well as thee in the wrong way. Yea, verily! Heigh-ho!
And you, Misther Indian, tell me thy first name, and I
will call thee afther the manner of our paceable paple, who
fear God and honour the King, and—”
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“Cease! cease thy silly jargon, Patrick!”
“Plase yer honour, don't call me Patrick,” whispered
Paddy, “because the natives hate the Irish worse than the
divil!”
“But, Richard,” said his mother, “why have they bound
thee?”
“Thee sees I am their prisoner, and will bear witness
against them.”
The chief uttered some commands to his followers, when
Mr. and Mrs. Schooley, and the quaking Paddy, were all
seized and bound.
“Divil a bit more will I be a Quaker,” said Paddy,
“for they saize thim as well as other folks! And
now—”
“Peace, Patrick,” said Thomas, “and learn resignation
from us. They have bound and plundered us, and yet we
do not complain. We are sustained by a supporting principle
within, and thee—”
“Och, now, Misther Schooley, none of yer praiching to
me. It's too late. They know me; for one of 'em was in
the battle on the Scioto, and at the fort, and he can't forgit
Paddy. It won't do to stay here. I must escape. They
won't hurt you, when all yer money's gone. But whiles
they're dividing yer goold I'll git off.”
They were truly at that moment in a dispute about the
treasure. The sum found on Thomas and Mary was unexpectedly
large, and it had been the weight of the money
which produced the exhaustion of the latter.
Paddy, therefore, bursting asunder the cords, slipped
away unobserved.
“Be jabers, I'm fraa agin!” said he, pausing and listening,
after creeping some distance and finding himself
not pursued. “And I mane to stay fraa. Divil take the
Quakers! I thought the blackguards wuddn't handle the
nasty craters! But they've bound 'em like pigs for a fair.
The blissed Catholic religion is the best afther all, both for
this world and the nixt! When I confess agin, I'll promise
niver, niver to desart the pope!” And Paddy fell
down on his knees and repeated a prayer. “Och, murther!”
cried he, springing up again. “And I've been
knaling beside a big rattlesnake! Jist hear what a fuss
he makes! And there he is, kyled up, wid his head and
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tail in the middle o' him. I'll kill the divil! No!” he
continued, pausing, with a stone suspended in the air;
“it may be the divil himself, come agin in the form of a
sarpent. And kin Paddy kill the divil? Divil the bit!
The praist'll say he was afther me for turning Quaker.
Och, howly Saint Pater, forgive me! Good-by, Misther
Divil, I'll lave ye, and I hope your nasty riverence won't
follow afther me. I don't desire yer company, and I'm
sure ye'll have yer hands full o' the Quakers.”
So Paddy left the huge rattlesnake, which, as is sometimes
the case, neither advanced nor retreated from the
ground it occupied. But the fugitive had become confused,
and knew not whether to direct his steps, and trembled lest
he should again fall into the hands of the Indians. He
recollected with regret and dismay the many tales he had
told of the terrible slaughter he had made in the numerous
battles he had fought, and was frightened at the conviction
that his fame had spread throughout the wilderness, like
that of Boone and Kenton and McSwine.
Meantime the contention over the treasure rose to such
a pitch that knives were unsheathed, tomahawks brandished,
and no doubt the disputants would have proceeded to blows,
(such being the evil consequence of a lust for wealth,) had
not Moody and his band of Tories arrived upon the ground
in time to prevent the catastrophe.
The Tories being more numerous than the Indians, and
the latter having been directed by Queen Esther to obey
the commands of the royalist, Moody cut short the disputation
by seizing the money himself, promising, however,
to make an equitable division at his cave.
“And now, friend Schooley,” continued Moody, “why
are your hands tied in that manner? Did Murphy's men
do it?”
“Thee knows, Bonnel, that Timothy is away with his
company, or else thee would not be here. It was thy
men—these Indians, Bonnel! And thee need not pretend
to be ignorant of it. Thee knows it is my money in thy
leathern bag. Ah, Bonnel, Bonnel! This is the protection
of George's friends by his officers! Thee knows
very well we are loyal to the King.”
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Schooley,” said Moody, in
tones of pretended earnestness. “But you shall see that
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I am not to blame. It is necessary for me to act thus. I
intended to be here before the Indians, and then these
things would not have occurred. But now, if I were to
give you back the money, the savages would leave me, and
perhaps murder you.”
“Thee knows how to plead for money, Bonnel,” said
Mrs. Schooley.
“But you shall lose nothing, madam,” replied Moody.
“Every penny shall be paid back. We will go at once to
your house—if they did not burn it—and I hope they
didn't—”
“No, they did not,” said Mr. Schooley; “but thee
knows the burning would not be so great a loss to me as
the taking of my money.”
“I'll convince you of my friendship,” said Moody, cutting
the cords that bound the captives. “These are our
friends,” he continued, winking to the Indian chief, who
had only executed the Tory-robber's orders. “We will
conduct them back to their home, and dine with them, as
a token of our penitence for the mistake.”
“If thee would convince us of that,” said Thomas,
“thee had better give me the money.”
“That is filthy lucre, Thomas, and its restitution might
cause a quarrel, and perhaps bloodshed, among the King's
friends. No! You would not have such sins committed
for the sake of the dross! But you shall lose nothing. I
will give you a receipt for the whole sum, which will be the
same thing as an order on the King's treasury, when peace
is restored.”
“Thee has the power, and thee can act as thee pleases,”
said Thomas; “and thee can include the value of my negro
woman, which was two hundred pounds.”
“I will! And it shall be taken out of the pay of the
Indians. They should have known better! And I'll add
twenty pounds, friend Thomas, for our dinner, and we'll
call it forage.”
“Bonnel, thee knows my loyalty, and I do not doubt that
George's armies will resubjugate this rebellious people.
Nevertheless, thee would please me better by giving me
back my money and withholding thy order.”
“It is impracticable, sir,” said Moody, “and I am sorry
for it. Come on; you are now free, and the Indians will
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do you no further injury unless you insist too much on
having back the gold.”
“And, be the powers,” said Paddy, stepping forward,
having wandered back in his endeavours to get away, “I
am included in the same party! I'm one of 'em, Misther
Mody, and I'm thruly glad we have fallen into the hands
of sich a liberal and ginerous gintleman.”
Paddy's return produced no particular commotion, since
his absence had not been observed. One of the Indians,
however, seeing his hands were loose, seized him by the
hair, and called upon his comrades to bind him again, saying,
in his own language, that Paddy was a furious warrior
and had killed a great number of their people. But this,
when interpreted by Moody, was flatly denied by Paddy.
He said his boasting was all gammon, and that he had
never hurt the hair of an Indian's head; and Thomas
demanded his release as one of his household.
“And that's thrue, Misther Mody,” said Paddy; “I'm
one of his family, if ye plase.”
“You no son of Quaker,” said the Seneca chief. “You
Irish—and Murphy Irish. We burn Murphy—we burn
Paddy.”
“I beg yer pardon, sir!” said Paddy. “Tim Murphy's
a great fighter and has killed a dozen blag—Indians.
Tim's a brave warrior, and Paddy's a coward!”
Paddy had no sooner made this admission than the Indian
struck him a blow on the head with the handle of his
tomahawk, which, although it produced no wound, felled
him to the ground.
“You are a fool, Paddy,” said Moody, interfering and
preventing further punishment, “for confessing yourself a
coward. That is the greatest crime of which you could be
guilty.”
“Divil take 'em!” said Paddy, rising. “There's no
plasing 'em! But I'll do as you say. And I'd be extramely
oblaged if ye'd let me go and wait upon the young
ladies, who are wishing for me at the Tower Rock.”
“Tower Rock! Yes, you shall go there with us, Paddy.
We will visit them to-night. They will know your voice,
and perhaps you can aid us in getting possession of the old
refugee. You shall share the reward and have a portion
of his treasure. I suppose, Paddy, since you are one of
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Mr. Schooley's family, we can rely upon your loyalty. If
you are a Whig, say so, and we'll have your scalp on the
same string with the negro woman's, and save the hindquarter
of a pig at dinner.”
“Say so? And wud ye have me tell a lie, Misther
Mody? I was born under the reign of King George, of
glorious mimory! Misther Mody, if iver I live to git back
to ould Ireland, the king shall hear from Paddy's lips what
a thrue and valuable subjict he had in the wild wuds of the
Jenny Jump Mountain! You are fit to be a gineral, Misther
Mody, and his Majesty couldn't do a betther dade
than to make ye a knight, and bestow on ye a noble ancestry.
Try me, Misther Mody, and saa if Paddy don't drive
the ould gray rat into yer hands. And as for the reward,
Paddy has not the maneness of sowl to desire a pinny of
it! No, Misther Mody, it shall be all yer own.” And, as
he cast up his eyes to impress Moody with an idea of his
sincerity, he beheld Skippie in the tree over his head,
winking and making mouths at him.
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE EXILE'S STRONGHOLD—PADDY'S DIPLOMATIC SKILL—
THE ALARM—THE ENTRANCE—CONDUCT OF THE DOG.
When the girls entered the hut the aged exile cordially
greeted them, and, having the dark barrier removed in
readiness for their ingress, they passed at once into the
rock-bound chambers of the cliff.
“My dear children,” said the exile, “you are safe here.
They dinna ken the holes o' the old fox, but believe he is
in league wi' the de'il. But they will come again in the
gloom of midnight, or when the shimmering stars are
still gemming the early morning. They suppose there is
treasure hidden here, and for that they would delve into the
infernal regions. I have treasure for my bonny laddie and
his love, but not for the instruments of the usurper.”
He then exhibited to the admiring girls several rich presents
from Charles Edward and other Scottish monarchs to
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himself and his ancestors, and entertained them with recitals
of the deeds which had been commemorated by the
gifts.
But the glittering stones were but as pretty toys in comparison
with the indestructible products of mind; and
chief among these, and ever to be unrivalled, was the immortal
Shakspeare. “The artist and the lapidary might
fashion a gem produced by nature,” said he, “but the great
poet was a creator of worlds in which one might live and
breathe unconscious of the ills that flesh is heir to.”
Thus for several hours were Kate and Julia entertained,
when they were interrupted by the creaking of the massy
door communicating with the hut. It was Skippie, who
had come to inform his chief of the arrival of several of
the clansmen from the mountain, (being all that remained,)
and who, in accordance with the chief's directions, were
then concealed among the brambles on the summit of the
cliff, armed only with bows and arrows and spears, being
too weak in number to make any open resistance to the
assaults of Moody's party. He likewise informed his chief
of the scene he had witnessed under the tree, and repeated
to the girls (for he could speak when commanded by
Lochiel) the verses inscribed on the beech's rind.
Skippie was commanded to admit Paddy when he arrived,
and afterward to go in quest of Charles.
When the moon had dipped beneath the western horizon,
and the silent scene was wrapped in the solemn gloom of
darkness, the approach of Moody and his gang was announced
by the loud and shrill whistle of Skippie, who lay
concealed on the margin of the stream that meandered by
the base of the precipitous cliff. As he anticipated, the signal
was heard by the hostile party, which immediately halted.
“They have been informed of our approach,” said
Moody. “That is their signal. I have heard it before,
and every time we were foiled. It must not be so now.
They cannot have a large force, unless the old wizard has
the power of calling infernal spirits to his aid. Go, Paddy,
and deliver this paper to the old man. If he is not a fool
he will grant the demand, and save at least the lives of his
defenders and the two maidens with him, as well as his
own. You may say I have the positive assurance of an
officer of high rank that if he surrenders himself into my
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hands, although they cannot withhold the reward from me,
there is not the slightest probability of his execution. Go,
Paddy, and bring me his reply to the summons. And beware
that you do not deceive us! We are at least ten to
one, and there could be no escape for you. And you may
say that Brandt himself, with five hundred warriors, is by
this time sweeping down the Wyoming Valley. The garrisons
are all surrendering. The tomahawk and the firebrand
are doing the work of extermination; and it is not probable
the old fox's son, or any of his company, will survive to
raise the siege, if we must be delayed awaiting the prize.
Tell him we believe—no, say we have learned—that he has
a cave under the hut, into which he usually retires in times
of danger, but that it will not serve him now. If he
refuses to yield himself, we will dig him out; and the more
labour and trouble he causes us, the greater will be the
exasperation of the Indians. Go! And if you neglect
your duty, or fail to return within ten minutes, we will
commence the assault, and you will be burnt at the stake!”
“Murther! And if they won't let me come to ye, am I
still to be roasted alive wid the wooden spit stuck in me?”
“Yes, you, and every one with him.”
“But they may kill me as I go till 'em, taking me for
an inemy!”
“Then you won't feel the fire. But you shall be roasted
for the wolves.”
“Och, Mr. Mody, don't say that, if ye plase! It makes
the cowld chills run up me back!”
“The flames will take them out again. No more words—
but go!”
Paddy started forward desperately, making a great noise
in the bushes. And when he was in sight of the hut he
began to call aloud, so that his voice might be recognised.
“Don't shoot!” cried he. “I'm Paddy, the Irishman, and
not an inemy. I'm only a flag of truce, that all the nations
howld sacred as the howly wafer! I haven't the speck of
a gun; and sure ye wuddn't fire at an unarmed and defenceless
man who has been wid ye—waah!” he screamed, as
he was seized by the lurking Skippie.
“Silence!” said Skippie, pulling him toward the hut.
“Ye may well say that, afther ye have taken me
breath!” said Paddy.
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“Whisper!” said Skippie.
“I can't. Me mammy didn't tache me that. But I
kin run!” and he sprang forward with such activity that
he was soon sheltered within the hut, where he was surprised
to find no one to whom his message could be delivered.
“Where's the owld man?” he asked. “If he's gone,
I shall be kilt and roasted alive! Skippie, dear, I forgive
all the pranks you've played me, and only beg you'd git me
out of the scrape I'm fallen into! What shall I do?”
“Go in there!” said Skippie, pointing toward the fire.
“No!—ye don't mane it! Sure ye wuddn't see me burn
meself to save me life! And the minutes are flying like
the sparks up the chimbley! I had only a repraive of tin,
and half of 'em's gone a'ready!”
“Go in!” said Skippie, seizing the iron bar. “I'm in a
hurry.”
“In the fire, is it? Divil a bit! If I'm to be burnt, I
shall wait till the time's up. And what're ye doing now?
Tak care! The back o' the wall's moving, and the house'll
tumble down. But that wuddn't save us, as they don't
mane to lave wan stone on anither! Be me sowl, it's a
door! And there's a howl in the wall!” he continued, in
joyful amazement. “And if it lades to the divil himself,
I'll in!” And, leaping over the crackling billets, he entered
the opening, and the massy rock was pushed back by Skippie,
who uttered once more his shrill whistle as he plunged
into the woods.
The chamber Paddy was ushered into was illuminated
by a small lamp. He stood in the centre and gazed round
in utter astonishment. The aged exile and the girls were
silently observing him, themselves unseen.
“Be jabers, but this is a quare place! And if Skippie
is the divil afther all, it's Paddy himself who is caged!
I'm in it now! But I'll sarve him faithfully if there's
no worse punishment than to stay in sich comfortable
quarthers. Be me sowl, I don't know whether I'm draming
or waking. Rouse up, Paddy, and open yer eyes! Where
are ye, me boy? Be the howly St. Patrick, it's not a
drame, or I couldn't fale me ear when I pinch it! And
is it his infarnal majesty who kapes sich nice apartments?
I wondher if he allows his paple to ate, too? I smell
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mate. And so they ate—and dhrink too, I hope—in the
nather ragions. But, Paddy, don't forgit the ten minutes!
Time's up, by this time. And kin the blackguards come
here too? It's meself who hopes not! Wa-ah! Oo-oh!”
cried he, starting back, as he perceived Julia and Kate
emerging from the dark passage. “And is it yer blissed
selves the divil's got? And ye're smiling, too! Or is it
fairies me eyes behowld? Och, and wuddn't ye be kind
enough, gintle sperits, to tell me whether Paddy's raally
slaping or waking?”
“Your eyes are open, Paddy,” said Kate; “but still
you may be dreaming.”
“That's yer voice, I know. And so Paddy's alive, and
not roasting at the stake? And this is the rale house of
owld Misther Cameron! It's a palace for a king! And
there's his honour himself. Och, and I'll deliver me message,
onyhow!”
And he did so. The aged exile read the note and listened
to Paddy without stirring a muscle.
“Go,” said he, “into the balcony, facing the stream,
where our foes are awaiting my answer, and say, with your
loudest voice, that the usurper's enemy, whom they seek,
will hold no converse with them, and defies them!”
“And it must be thrue that we are safe, or sure you
wuddn't bid me say sich a thing? The saints be thanked!
And Paddy's the boy that'll answer 'em. Plase, now, swate
darlints, show me the way to that same balcony, and go wid
me, or I might stumble and fall through.”
“It is a solid floor, Paddy,” said Julia, smiling.
“And it's yerself who considers us safe in this house?”
“Quite safe, Paddy; even if they were to discover the
entrance from the hut, one man with a brace of pistols
could defend the passage.”
“And Paddy's as snug as a bug in a rug!” said he, half
singing and half dancing for joy. “And you don't think,”
said he, “that if the blackguards were to burn the house,
I mane the wudden hut, the hate would reach us here?”
“Oh, no doubt their hate would reach us anywhere; but
we can defy their malice.”
“I don't mane that, but the hot hate of the burning
tambers.”
“No; they burnt the hut once, and no one suffered.”
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“Good! Paddy's a fraa man agin! and as lively as an
aal. Now, plase, lade me to the balcony, and jist listen at
the brave missage I'll spake till 'em!”
Julia and Kate led Paddy to a sort of masked balcony
ingeniously carved in the rock, where there had been a
fissure, overgrown with ivy and small cedars.
“Now, Misther Mody, where are ye?” he cried, in a loud
voice.
“Here! What does he say, Paddy?” responded Moody.
“He ses he won't disgrace himself by howlding any
conversation wid sich a set of blackguards as ye are.”
“What? What's that?”
“He says ye may all pack off to the divil, and—”
“Why, Paddy,” said Julia, “he said no such thing!”
“I know it, Miss Julia. It is an imbillishment of me
own.”
“And you use the devil for an embellishment,” said
Kate.”
“Och, if the ladies turn agin me, poor Paddy must surrinder!”
“If that's his answer, Paddy, you may come back,” said
Moody.
“Many thanks to ye, Misther Mody. And could ye tell
me what time o' the day it is?”
“Day, Paddy?' observed Kate.
“Double day, miss, since two suns are baming on me.”
“There!” said Julia. “Whoever heard a more gallant
speech?”
“What do you mean, Paddy?” asked Moody, who, guided
by the voice of his messenger, seemed to have drawn nearer
to the cliff.
“What do I mane?”
“Yes. I don't understand you. Come back, if my demands
be not complied with.”
“But, Misther Mody, me time's up long ago, and I'm
not going back to be roasted alive. I'm comfortable here,
taking care o' the ladies, and I shan't lave 'em as long as
they nade a protictor.”
“That's very kind in you, Paddy,” said Kate. “But,
bless me, they're firing at us!”
This was true. More than a score of guns were discharged
at the hut and the cliff; and some of the balls, as
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if attracted by Paddy's voice, bespattered the face of the
rock, sending dust and scales into his face, which stung him
smartly.
“Who're ye shooting at, ye nasty blackguards?” cried
Paddy. “Have ye no betther manners than to be pointing
yer falthy irons toward the young ladies?”
“Come in, Paddy!” said Julia. “Don't you hear their
feet approaching?”
“If you command it, I must obey,” said Paddy, ducking
his head at the flash of another volley, and rejoining
the party in the large apartment, where the aged exile sat
in undisturbed composure.
“They'll niver find us here,” said Paddy; “and if it
wasn't for the Tories the Indians wud soon lave us. They're
great cowards.”
“Cowards, Paddy?” said Kate.
“Yis, indade—cowards. I'll tell ye how I put a whole
party to flight meself; but I mustn't tell ye—”
“What? Do, Paddy, give us a narrative of your adventures
to-day,” said Julia.
“I must lave out the bloody part. Yer sinsitive narves
couldn't stand it.”
“Very well—go on. But, first, tell me where Rose is.”
“Rose! Rose, is it? Did ye say Rose, or Solo?”
“Solo is asleep on his couch of leaves. He is safe. But
what has become of Rose?”
“I'll tell ye when I'm done. Forty of 'em came to the
house, and were afther sculping all they could lay hands
on, Misther and Misthress Schooley and—”
“Mercy! You don't mean—”
“No, I don't mane to say ony sich thing. But they
intinded to kill 'em if I hadn't riscued 'em.”
“And how did you accomplish that?”
“Ye saa, I was up in the loft of the waiving-room,
whin—”
“Pray tell us how you happened to be there,” said Kate.
“How? How, is it? But that's nayther here nor
there. It was the luckiest thing in the world. For they
brought in Misther and Misthress Schooley, after they had
tomahawked Dinah before me eyes as she was waiving—”
“Oh, Paddy! why did you permit them?”
“Wait a moment, and ye shall hear. It wasn't good
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policy to interfare. If I had stopped 'em, they'd've kilt
the ould white folks. I waited in silence, looking down in
revinge. But when the tomahawks were lifted against the
vinerable heads of Misther and Misthress Schooley, I
plunged down upon 'em, calling upon the saints to help
me! I called so many, the yaller divils thought I had a
whole ragiment at me back. They ran off, and I say they
are a pack of cowards!”
“Now, Paddy, tell me about Rose.”
“Could ye bear it? And are ye prepared to hear the
worst?”
“Oh, yes! She would linger, to hunt some article of
clothing! Poor Rose!”
“She killed an Indian as dead as a hammer!”
“Rose!”
“Her arm was as thick as a traa, and as strong as an
elephant's trunk. They threw a tomahawk at her, which
struck the bundle of clothes. They were spylt, but they
saved her. So she tuk up the hatchet and chapped one of
their heads in two.”
“Paddy, is that so?”
“I'll take me oath on it!”
“And so Rose was saved?'
“I hope so. But I don't saa how it could be, aither,
for she had no praist.”
“Priest? Didn't you say she was saved?”
“From the tomahawk. But her clothes couldn't turn
the rifle-bullets. They shot her, and she's defunct.”
“Oh, poor Rose!”
“She died widout a sthruggle, as Misthress Schooley informed
me; and, as she didn't scrame, we may belave she
suffered no pain. Don't wape, Miss Julia. Consider what
you'd've done if it had been yerself, and be thankful it
was no worse.”
“Oh, they are burning the house!” cried Kate, hearing
the roaring of flames and the yells of the assailants.
The aged recluse, awakened from his reverie, turned his
calm countenance toward the young ladies, and besought
them not to be alarmed.
“You can now comprehend,” said he, smiling, “why the
exile did not build a better house in the valley. It was
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quite good enough to burn, and it was foreseen that such
would be its fate.”
“There!” cried Julia; “one of the Indians has been
killed by somebody. I heard the death-halloo!”
“Probably a shaft from one of my brave Scots posted
overhead. They cannot bear to see my poor house, worthless
as it is, destroyed by my enemies.”
“Mercy on us!” cried Kate; “and what is that?”
“Another familiar sound!” said Julia. “It is the awful
signal of blood!”
“It seems to me like the braying of an ass,” said the
old man.
“And yer ears don't desave ye,” said Paddy. “Wan
of Quane Asther's guards, who follers us from wan end of
creation to anither, rides on a jackass that brays like the
divil ivery time he smells blood. I hope the blackguard
the Scots have kilt is that same murthering Seneca wolf.”
“And can they not mount to the summit of the cliff and
slay the poor Scots?” asked Kate.
“They might gain the summit,” said Mr. Cameron,
“but it would then be deserted. My men have holes, like
foxes, to hide in.”
“Be me faith!” cried Paddy, “but they'll find 'em!
The Indians know how to hunt the foxes. They'll mount
up to the top of the house and come down on us. Thirty
to one! And it was Paddy who forgot there was any top
to the Tower Rock!”
“Your alarm is needless,” said the old man. “It is a
solid rock. Long before they can cut through my roof,
nearly two hundred feet in depth, my son will be here.”
“Thrue, yer honour,” said Paddy, reassured. “And
I'm sure I trust the walls are strong enough to support
such a roof as that.”
Another fatal shaft from the summit was announced by
the furious yells and maledictions of the besiegers, and it
was succeeded by a general discharge of their pieces at the
precipitous face of the rock. The altitude from which
Paddy had spoken to Moody betrayed the locality of the
besieged, and the mystery of the means of escape from the
smouldering tenement was, in part, explained. It was
announced by Moody to his followers that the refugee had
retired into a cave whose entrance had hitherto escaped
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discovery; but he doubted not they would soon find it,
when the rich treasure, so often dwelt upon in his speeches,
and which had excited the cupidity of his company, would
be divided among them.
Fortunately the mass of glowing embers deposited by
the consumed hut prevented an immediate approach to the
only place of ingress. Nor was it likely that the besiegers
would suspect an orifice had been cut in the solid base of
the cliff. They would rather look for an excavation under
the hut, supposing the diminutive habitation had been
erected over the mouth of the cave. And, impelled by
this idea, the greater portion of the Tories and Indians
were soon engaged in removing the smouldering rubbish
from the earth, but still failed to perceive the entrance at
the fireplace. The rest were dispersed in various directions,
seeking the foe who winged the fatal shafts.
Another terrific yell announced some new event. Kate
and Julia clung tremblingly to the aged chief, while Paddy
turned pale and glanced toward the darkest recesses of
the room.
“Fear not, my children,” said Lochiel; “there is no
danger. There is but one avenue of approach, and that a
child might successfully defend. There are caves also entering
into these chambers, which I have recently opened.
But they are dark, and seemingly interminable. I have
explored them, and do not think they lead to the surface
anywhere.”
“I saw the dark howls,” said Paddy. “And we can
hide in 'em if they find us here.”
“We must defend the passage,” said the exile, “if they
discover the door. Listen! I understand it now. Some
one has discovered whence the shafts of my faithful Scots
are launched. Hark! They are rushing up the valley to
attain the summit. But my eagles will have flown when
they reach their eyrie. There are innumerable crags,
moss-covered fissures, brambles and cedars; and my trusty
clansmen are familiar with the hiding-places. Be not
alarmed, dear lassies; the old chief will answer for your
safety. Go to your couch and rest in peace.”
Julia and Kate, yielding to the desire of the aged chief,
retired for the night. The old man, left alone, with profound
indifference to the machinations of his foes, opened
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the volume before him, and dwelt in rapture on the pages
of the inspired poet.
Paddy was endeavouring to sleep on a bed of rushes in
a corner near the aperture of one of the recently-opened
passages in the rock. Into this cave it was his determination
to plunge if they should be surprised before
morning.
His recent fatigues and excitements soon caused him to
succumb to the approaches of slumber. But he made many
fitful starts and exclamations in his dreams. And once he
was roused upon feeling his cheek strangely fanned. He
lifted his head and gazed round; and his heart palpitated
audibly when he beheld, a short distance from him, two
luminous globes, the staring eyes of some frightful visitant.
He turned over and groped in a circle round the object of
his terror. But the eyes turned too, still fixed steadily on
him.
The aged chief continued to bend over the volume,
while the lamp flickered dimly, and Paddy crept noiselessly
to his side.
“Plase yer honour!” said Paddy.
“Weel!” said the chief, slowly lifting his head.
“Plase yer honour, look yonder! It's the divil!”
“Ye kenna what it is, mon! Why should the de'il come
hither? Why should we fear him? Gae to bed. That is
ane of my owls, hunting the mice. And if you see a lizard,
do not be alarmed, nor seek to injure it. Such creatures
are better companions than ungrateful men.”
Paddy, reassured both by the words and looks of the
chief, returned to his couch.
Without, a solitary Indian stood by the crystal stream
near the base of the cliff. He peered through the darkness
at the place whence Paddy's voice had proceeded, in height
some twenty feet, and, through entangled bush and creeper,
distinguished the rays of the lamp within as they shot
feebly upward in empty space. Lochiel was too thoughtful
to permit them to reach rock or tree so as to betray his
locality; but the Indian had perceived them in the atmosphere.
He stood with folded arms, gazing with direful
intent. Near him, on the margin of the water and opposite
the cliff, was a tall hickory-sapling. The dusky son
of the forest, when he removed his eyes from the leafy
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aperture in the cliff, gazed steadfastly at the young tree.
After measuring its height as well as possible in the obscurity,
he divested himself of his rattling beads, wampum,
and silver plates, and placed them beside his gun on the
ground. A strong buffalo thong, taken from his leathern
pouch, was wrapped loosely round his neck. He then
climbed the tree, as a sailor would a mast. There were no
branches near the ground, and his ascent was unimpeded
until he reached a height equal to that of the aperture in
the cliff.
After pausing a few moments and gazing fixedly at the
dimly-illuminated fissure, during which neither sound nor
motion could be distinguished within, he proceeded upward,
even when the stem of the sapling was no greater in
diameter than his arm, and swayed to and fro with his
weight. Keeping his back on the side next the cliff, he
continued to ascend, until, arching over the running stream,
the topmost bough of the tree rested against the face of the
cliff. The Indian made it fast to a point of rock which
projected over the vine-masked balcony, and then, softly
detaching himself, obtained a lodgment in the rift where
Paddy had been standing. Perfectly motionless, he
listened for many moments; but, neither sound of voice nor
motion of feet being detected, he entered the chamber.
Guided by the light of the lamp, he approached the
table where the white-haired exile still lingered over the
entrancing pages of the poet. He gazed cautiously round,
and, perceiving no one else in the apartment, glided noiselessly
toward the table, his glittering tomahawk brandished
in his hand. The old man, unconscious of his approach,
was smiling sweetly. This the savage perceived, and
paused. Why should he smile? Was it an ambuscade he
had plunged into? Certainly not; for the Kacha Manito
and not man had made the hickory-tree. But might not
the exile be a magician or great prophet? Again he
paused. No! If so, why seek security within the rock?
Raising his tomahawk once more, the Indian stepped forward
and aimed the fatal blow; but his arm was arrested
midway by the teeth of Solo, who had been lying in the
dark shadow of the protector of his mistress. The weapon
fell clanging upon the stone floor. Releasing the arm, and
twice barking sharply, the faithful dog grappled the throat
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of the Indian and bore him to the earth. The girls,
awakened by the sound, sprang up, screaming hysterically,
for they believed the place to be in the possession of the
enemy. But, seeing no one near, they ran toward the lamp,
still flickering on the table in the adjoining apartment.
There they beheld the aged exile rising slowly from his
great chair, with a finger on the page, that the place might
not be lost. At his feet stood Solo over the prostrate Indian,
who breathed with difficulty under the pressure of the
faithful animal's jaws.
“What is it? who is it?” exclaimed Julia.
“Bless my life!” said the old man, “it is an Indian!
How did he find access?”
“It is, indeed!” said Julia, thrusting away the tomahawk
with her foot, and ordering Solo to relax his hold.
“It is one of the terrible Queen Esther's guards—one of
my captors—and the chief who wounded Solo! It is a
just retribution.”
“The noble animal has saved my life, lassie,” said the
old man, reluctantly withdrawing his finger from the page.
“It was not so much revenge for the injury he had sustained,
as the generous impulse to rescue me from death.
Noble dog! Cherish him, Julia, my bonnie daughter!”
“Oh, I shall certainly do so!” said Julia, bending over
the Indian, whose breathing became easier under the relaxed
pressure. “See how bloody!” she continued. “I
would not have him die. He might recover. He is a
Mingo or Minisink chief.”
“Do you surrender?” asked the aged chief. The Indian,
still speechless, nevertheless comprehended the meaning
of his words, and lifted up his hands beseechingly.
“Where's the Irishman?” asked the old man. “Let
him bind his hands.”
“Paddy! Where are you, Paddy?” cried Julia and
Kate, but no Paddy answered. They sought his couch,
and found his bed of rushes, but Paddy himself had vanished;
and so they returned to the old man and his captive,
the latter being narrowly watched by Solo.
“Stand up,” said Mr. Cameron, placing his foot against
the savage, “and tell me how you got into my house.”
The Indian was soon sufficiently recovered to give the
information demanded. He could speak enough English
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to make himself imperfectly understood, and his gestures
did the rest. The tree was remembered, but no one had
ever thought it could be made the means of gaining access
to the apartments; and the old man smiled at the ingenuity
of the savage, and felt satisfied that his little fortress was
well enough guarded at all other points, and was not likely
to have many assailants from the quarter whence the Indian
had found an entrance.
“Pronounce his doom, my bonnie lassies,” said the aged
chief, drawing forth a pistol from beneath his chair.
“Oh, do not kill him!” exclaimed the girls. “He may
become a friend, if his life be spared.”
“He has penetrated my secret. His eyes are even now
glancing at my little wealth scattered about the room—”
“Still, it will be out of their power to reach us. They
will retire to their own country, and you will not be molested
again!” said Julia, pleading for the life of the captive.
“I have no pleasure in slaying my foes, my dear children,”
said the old man, replacing the pistol. “Lead him
to the balcony, and tell him he is free.”
The savage understood him, and offered his hand in
token of gratitude. It was not refused by the exile, who,
a moment after, resumed his seat, and was once more bending
over the volume.
Julia motioned the savage to retire toward the balcony,
while Kate and herself, preceded by Solo, followed his steps.
He cast a wistful glance at his tomahawk lying near the
feet of the exile, but did not stoop to pick it up, for the
teeth of his vanquisher were still visible.
The enfranchised Indian, by his looks and gestures, expressed
to the young ladies the thanks his tongue could not
utter. And when he reached the aperture, through which
the early gleams of day were now struggling, he extended
his hand to each of them, and bade them a grateful adieu.
The next moment he had vanished, having descended the
tree without detaching its top from the rock.
Then it was, and just as Julia and Kate turned back to
seek their couch in the dim obscurity, that the face of
Paddy became visible.
“Who's that?” cried Kate.
“It is Paddy!” said Julia. “Where have you been?
Why are you so pale?”
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“Pale, is it? It's rage—it's hate—I'm furious, because
you lit him go. I wud've sculped the blackguard!”
“Why were you not present, Paddy, when we were deciding
his fate?”
“Och, and if I wasn't there, I couldn't help it. It was
no fault of mine, Miss Julia. I sprung up when the dog
barked, thinking the whole gang was on us. I was half
aslape, and couldn't saa objects distinctly; and so I got
into the dark hole, where I couldn't behowld me hand before
me eyes. There I stood with me knife and gun, thinking
the savages had got in that way, and detarmined to
defind the passage to the last dhrop of me blood. And
this explanation, I hope, ye will repate for me to the owld
chafe.”
And, saying this, Paddy likewise returned to his couch.
CHAPTER XXIV.
DESPERATE ATTEMPT—THE PANTHER AND THE EAGLE.
The rising of the sun, its crimson rays streaming over
the misty summits of the mountains, was the signal for a
renewal of the fierce shouts of the implacable enemy.
A portion of the besiegers had ascended to the summit
of the cliff. But the small band of defenders posted there
the preceding day had vanished. Yet Moody congratulated
himself upon the occupancy of positions which were
calculated to effect his diabolical purpose. The besieged
could not escape without falling into his hands, nor could
succour reach them without first entering his ambuscade.
The aged chief, unmindful of the machinations of his foes,
again entertained the maidens with anecdotes of Charles
Edward after the disaster at Culloden, and described particularly
the conduct of Flora Macdonald, exhibiting her
miniature executed in Paris; and the admiration of the
girls was not diminished by the assurance that Flora, like
Lochiel himself, was at that moment sojourning in America.
But Paddy's views could not be confined within the
narrow limits of his rock-bound habitation. And so he
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wandered to the balcony, and peeped out from behind the
ivy-vines and cedar-bushes.
A single glance sufficed to appal him. A dozen Tories
and Indians were grouped around the slender sapling, the
topmost bough of which still remained attached to the
point of jutting rock, bound by the strong cord of buffalohide.
They stood in silent wonder or whispered consultation,
heedless of the dangerous proximity of the besieged. But
no shot had been fired at them in the night, and it was inferred
the old man had no arms, or was, like the Moravians
and Quakers, averse to shedding blood. It did not occur
to them that one of their own number (the Indian who had
ascended the tree being absent) had used the sapling to
gain access to the masked opening in the cliff, which, from
the location of Paddy in the night when declaring the decision
of the aged chief, they were now convinced communicated
with the cave that contained the victims they had
doomed to destruction.
“Some one of their friends got in during the night,”
said Moody. “And if a white man can enter, why can't
an Indian?”
This was succeeded by “ughs!” of approbation, and
several of the Senecas volunteered to make the attempt.
At that moment the Indian who had climbed the tree joined
them; and, as he was a famous adventurer, and one of the
bravest men of the party, Moody was surprised to see him
sit down and muse in silence.
“Will you not go first?” he asked.
“No! Me no go!” was the abrupt response. And
Moody turned away, and bestowed his praises on the intrepid
chief already ascending.
“Misther Cameron! Misther Cameron!” cried Paddy,
rushing into the presence of the old man.
“Weel? Speak, mon.”
“Plase yer honour, I want a gun or a pisthol. They're
standing down there by the strame, and in full view o' me,
and I want to give 'em a broadside from the balcony.”
“Pooh! And why? Why would you shed their blude?
Ane or twa more or less will make na difference. Be merciful,
mon, and save thy valour for the moment when fighting
is necessary. You shall not disturb them.”
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And, turning to the girls, the old man resumed his narrative
with perfect unconcern. But he had not proceeded
far before Paddy returned, pale and trembling.
“Misther Cameron! They're coming! They'll be here
in a minute! They're climbing in at the winder! We'll
be murthered!”
“Don't be alarmed, my children,” said the old man,
rising. “The thong must be cut, and then they will
desist.”
“Let Paddy do it!” said Julia. “Do not go yourself,
sir!”
“Plase yer honour,” said Paddy, quickly, “me knife's
too dull!”
“Take my dirk,” said Mr. Cameron, offering the polished
blade.
“And plase let me have the loan of yer pisthol, for fear
wan of 'em may be in.”
“And Solo shall accompany you,” said Julia.
Paddy returned cautiously and reluctantly to the balcony,
accompanied by the girls and followed by Solo. The Indian
had not reached the face of the cliff, but was within
a few feet of it, and making rapid progress in the perilous
ascent. By a spasmodic effort, Paddy, after giving the
pistol to Julia, succeeded in severing the cord. The elastic
sapling sprang back to its original position, and hurled the
adventurous climber some fifty feet into the brushwood,
through which he plunged with great force, crashing
among the boughs, and finally fell to the earth, amid
the shouts and laughter of the spectators.
The Indian, unhurt, but greatly exasperated, emerged
from the bushes, and threw his tomahawk in the direction
of the half-concealed aperture.
“Dodge!” cried Paddy, falling down on his knees,
while the girls, supposing a volley was about being fired at
them, involuntarily followed his example; and the next instant
the tomahawk, glancing from the side of the orifice,
fell harmless at their feet.
Moody soon after announced to his followers that he had
conceived a plan by which they could obtain an entrance.
And when he explained his scheme the whoops of the
savages were almost deafening. They were seen running
in different directions and gathering materials for the
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fabrication of a rope of sufficient length and strength to convey
the men from the summit of the cliff down to the opening
that had been discovered in its side. This was speedily
accomplished, for the Indians have nimble fingers; and
their exultant halloo, the meaning of which Julia perfectly
comprehended, burst upon the air and was reverberated in
the valleys.
The great cable, composed of hempen strings, hair, and
hides, was tied to a rock on the apex of the cliff and within
a few feet of the edge of the precipice. Here the scene
was wild in the extreme. A few cedars and thorns, dwarfed
in their growth for the want of soil, from exposure to the
chilling blasts of winter and the excessive heats of summer,
comprised the sparse vegetation of the spot, which seemed
a locality never designed for the presence of man, savage
or civilized. But now, like demons of mischief, the fell Indians
and Tories, their faces bathed in the red rays of the
morning sun, flitted hither and thither on the dreary apex
of the summit, making the solitary place more hideous by
their whoops and grimaces.
The summit of the cliff jutted over its base, so that those
above, who were to lower their companions, could not see
the aperture. Therefore the party was divided, one half
remaining below, and the air was filled with their loudly-shouted
communications.
It was decided that the cable should reach down to the
stream below, to be ascended or descended, as might be the
most practicable and advantageous.
The first Indian who ventured over the precipice was
furiously assailed by an enormous eagle, having its nest
on one of the ledges or shelves inaccessible to all animals
not possessing wings or incapable of suspending themselves
in mid-air. The brave bird, seeing the dusky savage approaching
its young, uttered a shrill scream and darted at
him, and the Indian's head-dress of feathers and tinsel was
scattered in fragments on the wind. Descending again
like a bolt from a thundercloud, the eagle ripped open with
his beak and talons the skin on the shaven crown of the
invader of his domestic precincts. A cry of pain startled
the spectators, and the next moment the suspended savage
relaxed his grasp and fell headlong into the shallow stream
beneath, upon whose bed of rocks his body was crushed
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like the flattened ball of a rifle against a flint-stone! A
cry of horror escaped the lips of Julia and Kate, who witnessed
the occurrence from the masked balcony, themselves
unseen. The friends of the unlucky Indian rushed forward
and dragged his mangled corpse from the water.
A broken shaft of an arrow floating down the current
attracted no attention, or was supposed to have belonged
to the unfortunate adventurer. His body was covered
with wounds, and no minute examination was instituted, as
the fall alone had been sufficient to produce death.
A second Indian descended the cable, and,—although untouched
by the eagle, which, however, did not cease to dart
at his head, in defiance of the shots fired at him,—like the
first, and precisely at the same place, uttered the death-shriek,
and fell upon the same rock at the bottom of the
shallow stream.
This time the shaft remained in the body, and a yell of
rage succeeded the discovery. But from whence had it
been fired? They did not suppose it possible for the Scots
to go over the edge of the precipice and find a lodgment in
its face. Nor was it possible. But there were hidden paths
at the extremity of the cliff, leading along the shelves on
its front. With these the Scots were familiar; and these
narrow paths were soon discovered by the Indians, burning
more furiously than ever for revenge. But it was a fearful
place,—a dizzy height,—netted over in some places by
creepers and stunted brambles, with ever and anon dwarf
cedars growing out of the fissures whose only soil was the
decomposed leaves blown thither.
A general search for the hidden foe ensued. All other
enterprises were suspended. Like trained bloodhounds, the
Indians sought and found the trail of the three or four
clansmen, sole defenders of the chief who had, in his native
land, commanded a thousand.
Shouts of demoniac joy announced the discovery. Two
or three of the boldest Indians precipitately followed it,
unheeding the advice of the more aged and experienced
warriors, who would have had a consultation upon the best
mode of dislodging the enemy.
On they rushed, leaping over rifts and holding by the
tenacious cedars, when their progress was suddenly arrested
by the ferocious growl of a panther, whose head protruded
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from a small cave in the rock beside the path and but a
few paces before them!”
“Ugh! ugh!” each of the Indians uttered in turn, on
beholding the glaring eyes of the beast. The growl had
likewise been heard by those below, watching the progress
of the young warriors. And when they beheld the head
of the animal thrust from the rock, they fired and wounded
him. He sprang forward with a cry of rage, and, seizing
the foremost of the Indians in the narrow path, they fell
together on the rocks beneath, both mangled and dead.
At this juncture a warwhoop was heard in a westerly
direction. Moody and the Senecas listened with suspended
breath for its repetition, not having immediately comprehended
its import amid the confusion of sounds. They
knew not whether to look for friends or enemies. They
were aware that the remnant of the company of patriots
from that vicinity which might survive the slaughter in the
valleys of Pennsylvania would soon arrive to the succour
of the besieged. They had been assured, however, by
Queen Esther and Brandt and Walter Butler, that but few
of that little band would escape; and, whatever might be
the number of survivors, they would be quickly followed,
and perhaps preceded, by Brandt himself and the implacable
Queen of the Senecas.
But the warwhoop was not repeated. Moody and his
men immediately posted themselves in the passes of the
intersecting valleys to defend the approaches to the cliff.
This was hardly accomplished, when the aged chieftain,
hastily closing the book from which he had been reading
aloud to his fair auditors, while Paddy slumbered in oblivious
security, announced the approach of Charles.
“Thank heaven!” exclaimed Julia; “but how have you
learned it?”
“My bonnie lassie kens not the meaning of the air
played on the horn by my brave clansman hidden in the
cliff. The young chief advances! My boy survives, and
I shall once more clasp him in my arms!”
“Thank heaven!” repeated Julia. “But, sir, are we
not here surrounded by the enemy? And may he not fall
before our eyes?”
“He will sweep them away like the mist of the morning!
Our cage will be opened, and my pretty birds will bask
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again in their native air and flutter in the sunshine.
Listen!” continued the old man, leading the way to the
balcony. “That is the Oolah of the Senecas! They are
already flying before my victorious Charlie!”
It was true; but they were retreating toward the cliff,
resolved to prevent any communication with it by a desperate
stand at the stream that swept round its base.
With their backs toward the besieged, and sheltered in
front by the embankment of the stream, the bushes and
trees, Moody and his party awaited the approach of the
rescuers.
“Be me sowl!” cried Paddy, gazing down at the backs
of the Tories and Indians, “it sames to me it would be a
bloody shame not to help our frinds who are going to fight
for us! Plase, sir,” he continued, “let us open a masked
battery on 'em behint, and show 'em we have the courage
to fight.”
“Oh, sir,” said Julia, “let me unite with Paddy in beseeching
you to render whatever assistance may be in your
power!”
“It shall be done, my lassie!” said the roused chief.
He then directed Paddy to bring forth some half a dozen
brace of pistols. These he charged with powder only, saying
it was not necessary to spill blood in repelling such a
foe. No shot having been fired from the cliff, the enemy
naturally supposed they were unprovided with weapons;
and when the pistols should be discharged in quick succession,
the panic would be complete, for the inference that
succours had entered the garrison would be unavoidable.
But this must be done at the proper time, and he give the
signal. Soon, the close proximity of the rescuers was
announced by a simultaneous discharge of rifles, both from
the embankment and from the trees and bushes on the level
space beyond. The floating clouds of smoke prevented the
spectators in the fissure from having more than fitful
glances of the conflict; but the fire, once begun, was continued
without intermission, accompanied by shouts and
yells and the death-shrieks of the fallen. The fiercest intensity
of the struggle fluctuated from right to left, as the
combatants strove to outflank each other. The awful
braying of the ass, still retained by the Senecas, announced
that blood was flowing; and the continued barking of the
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little brown dog, ever and anon flitting in view, was proof
of Van Wiggens being among the survivors.
“Now let us surprise them!” said the old man. “There
are four of us, and if we fire in quick succession they will
suppose there are eight guns in their rear. Besides, I see
my faithful men on the cliff are plying their arrows.”
He was obeyed. And the demonstration was crowned
with complete success. Moody, appalled, was the first to
give way, and his Tories followed him. The Indians could
not maintain the conflict alone, and soon fled after them.
Crossing the shallow stream, and passing over the ruins of
the burnt hut, they sought shelter in the ravine at the head
of the range of cliffs. Here they made another stand,
their rifles still partially commanding the position they had
relinquished, but not including within their range the
ground occupied by Charles.
Charles, convinced that his parent and Julia must be
looking down from the aperture, with the location of which
he was familiar, advanced into an open space, and waving
his hat, was joyfully recognised by those whose prayers
were unceasingly uttered for his preservation.
He was joined soon after by Murphy, Van Wiggens, and
Peter Shaver, the latter leading the ass, which he had met
within the woods, and which it seemed was destined to be
ever crossing his path.
“Where's Hugh?” asked the old chief, from the rift in
the rock.
“Fallen!” was the sad response.
The old man, pale and sorrowful, bowed his head upon
his breast.
“Tam dem!” cried Van Wiggens, as a fresh volley was
fired by the Indians, the only effect of which was a slight
wound in the ear of Watch, who uttered a sharp cry and
shook off the blood.
“Hide yourself, my son!” cried the old man, “or come
hither immediately; else they will slay you before my eyes.
It is my little treasure and your life they seek!”
“I cannot abandon my brave men, father,” said Charles.
“And the battle is not over yet. We have been followed
by Brandt and a few of his bravest warriors, urged on by
the bloodthirsty Esther! She murdered my men who became
their prisoners with her own wrinkled hands! And
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Brandt, whom I loved and called my brother, seeks to slay
me, believing I killed his sister. Twice have I spared his
life, hoping to make him hear my denial, but I was disappointed.
When he listens to me, and believes me, as he
must, he will retire. I hear him now! That is his terrible
warwhoop! Spare him, my brave men! Spare him, for
my sake, and for the sake of his poor murdered sister.
Let me speak with him, and we shall be reconciled.”
When he ceased speaking, the junction of Brandt with
Moody and his Senecas was announced by the most deafening
yells.
CHAPTER XXV.
MEETING OF THE FOREST BROTHERS.
The battle was renewed. The enemy poured down the
narrow ravine into the broader valley, led by Brandt, who
called aloud upon White Eagle to come forward and decide
the contest by single combat.
And when the Senecas, Mohawks, and Tories returned
to the cliff in such overwhelming numbers that Charles was
forced to retire over the stream under cover of the intertwining
thicket, the old hag, Queen Esther, stood upon
the desolate apex of the knoll at the summit, waving to
and fro a staff she termed her sceptre, and mumbling one of
her incantations which had great influence over the superstitious
minds of the savages. She had a book, in which
were kept the names of her victims. The number was
then two hundred and ninety-eight, and she declared the
White Eagle and his father would make an even three
hundred.
It was when Charles was retiring before the impetuous
charge of Brandt, that Julia, seized with inexpressible terror,
swooned in the arms of Kate. She was borne to the
couch where she had slept during the night; but restoratives
administered by the old man soon revived her.
“I am not ill,” said she, smiling faintly, though still as
pallid as ever. “It was a picture of the imagination,
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perhaps, which flitted athwart my vision. I thought I beheld
the bleeding form of Charles borne in the arms of Brandt,
who seemed to mourn rather than exult over his fall! Oh,
it was terrible! And why should such a scene rise before
me in the light of day and in my waking hours? It may
be a premonition of the reality! Oh, go, and assist him!
He is borne down by superior numbers! Go, Paddy, and
fight bravely, for my sake!”
“I will!” said Paddy, bustling about. “Be me sowl,
I'll kill ivery divil of 'em that comes within me range.
Give me all the pisthols! Paddy'll show 'em fates of
valour this blissed day!” And, saying this, he withdrew,
but did not join the combatants.
Brandt led the way over the stream, being some twenty
paces in advance of his party; and, although several of
them fell, victims of the deadly aim of the concealed remnant
of patriots, the great chief himself sustained no injury.
And Charles, although exposed more than any of
his party, likewise remained untouched. Brandt had ordered
his men to spare him, not that his life might be
saved, but that he might be reserved for his own hand.
And soon they met face to face in a small opening in the
forest. Brandt was pursuing his intended victim, who,
perceiving it, had purposely separated himself from his
party.
“Three times have I spared my brother's life,” said
Charles, lowering his rifle, and stepping boldly out from
behind a holly-tree.
“And you did so because you had already shed enough
of the blood of Thayendanegea!” was Brandt's reply, as
he paused abruptly, frowning fiercely, his tomahawk brandished
in his right hand.
“No, my brother, it was not so. It was because I desired
to convince you that never a drop of my poor sister's
blood was shed by me.”
“And can you do so? Does the White Eagle say he did
not shed the blood of the Brown Thrush?”
“Listen, Thayendanegea. We were boys together. We
bathed in the same streams by sunlight and by moonlight,
or when naught but the feeble rays of the distant
stars twinkled upon us through the broad leaves of the
sycamore. Then we clung to each other in confidence, and
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the Kacha Manito smiled upon our affection. I have not
changed.”
“Not changed! We bathed in the limpid Wyalusing,
beside the wigwam of my people. The smoke of the council-fire
ascended the blue sky. The tassels of the corn bent
under the weight of the bees, whose hum filled all the air
with music. All was peace and happiness. Not changed!
Who has made the home of my people desolate? The
corn is trodden under foot, the wigwam is in ashes, and the
Wyalusing encrimsoned with blood! And who wrought
this destruction? Why, the army of Sullivan, sent thither
by the great village-burner, Washington, whom you serve!
Not changed!”
“My brother cannot have forgotten who were the first
aggressors. But I speak not of war. I say my heart has
not changed!”
“But you have not said you did not slay my sister,—she
who loved you and sang by your couch when you slept.”
“I do say it.”
“White Eagle once was incapable of lying. If he had
not changed, I could not avoid believing him. But the
white man has the ingenuity to prove the guilty innocent
and the innocent guilty,—to make solemn oaths to dire
falsehoods, the word meaning one thing, the act another.
False! false! Not changed!”
“No; not changed. I make no solemn oath. I merely
tell thee that I am innocent of thy sister's blood. If I lie,
strike me dead, and send me with the falsehood on my
tongue before the Great Spirit who judges all things.
Strike! There is my rifle on the ground. Thy brother
will make no resistance, nor shrink from the blow!”
“Oh, my brother!” exclaimed Thayendanegea, dashing
his tomahawk to the earth, “I see the truth in thy tears.
Let us clasp hands. Though separated, we shall be brothers
still. They made me believe thee guilty. And who
lied to me? Esther! she, more cruel than the Senecas,
and a pale-face! Oh, my brother, she hath written thy
name in her roll of victims! I may not save you. But this
hand shall be guiltless of my brother's blood, and I will do
all in my power to shield you.”
“And, Thayendanegea,” said Charles, “I here declare
that, if I survive, my voice shall be heard in behalf of my
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forest brothers and sisters. Go back to your people, my
brother,—to the nations which acknowledge you as their
king,—and tell them they have been deceived. America
will be free. To Washington they must look for protection.
The British armies will be beaten, and who then will be
their friends?”
“Friends? And who are the friends of the Indians?—
those who pay them for the scalps of the enemy, or those
who take the land which the Great Spirit bestowed upon
them?”
“You will be paid for the land.”
“Paid? And when we must sell our inheritance against
our will, who is it that shall name the price? Alas! it must
be so. I see it. The Indian is doomed. But, in the land
of spirits, in the great hunting-grounds beyond the grave,
he will be at peace. Then those who despoiled him of his
fair country will rend each other. The lords of the forest
must give way to the corrupt hordes of civilized criminals.
They vanish like shadows into the land of spirits, to be
at peace forever. But behold their successors, religious,
virtuous, with written laws. See their destiny prefigured
in the more than savage cruelty of Esther, the white woman.
Yes, they will slay one another,—their religion a
source of incessant hatred and contention, their virtues
mocked at by scaffolds and prisons, and the law but the
sword of the majority wrought for the destruction of the
rest. Farewell, my brother. I will return to the last
abiding-place of the deer and the wolf.”
“Hark! what sound was that?” exclaimed Charles,
turning his face toward the cliff, whose summit alone he
could see from his position, and where he beheld the frantic
gesticulations of the old fury—who likewise heard the
sound—summoning the Senecas around her.
“It is the drum and fife of the white man,” said Brandt.
“They are coming to drive back the poor Indian from the
last of his beautiful valleys. They will hurl us hence as
the storm-wind rolls the foaming serf on the burning sands;
but they cannot restore the dead to life. And it was necessary
to appease the Malcha Manito by offering a certain
number of victims. But enough has been done. I see a
white flag approaching, and I will assemble my followers
around me.”
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He then uttered the rallying-halloo, and commanded a
cessation of hostilities; and, that his brother might not be
mistaken for a doomed prisoner, he laid his arm on his
shoulder, and they advanced together to the sparkling
stream, where friend and foe were soon mingling in conscious
security, and Charles was hailed with joy by the inmates
of the excavated rock.
A company of Wayne's men had arrived from the glorious
field of Monmouth. The British had retired beaten
from the bloody plains of New Jersey, and detachments
were sent from the American army to repel the aggressions
of the Tories and Indians on the borders.
The first one recognised by Charles was the Rev. David
Jones, at whose solicitation the company from Wayne's
brigade had been marched in that direction. He was welcomed,
likewise, by Julia, whose voice he heard and knew,
although he could scarcely see her through the clustering
foliage; and the aged exile would not permit the girls to
join their friends below until the last of his treacherous
foes led by Moody should depart.
“What have you to propose?” demanded Brandt, still
encircling the neck of Charles with his arm, as if he feared
the doomed victim of Esther might fall in his presence.
“What do you demand of us?” he continued, addressing
the captain of the company of Continentals. “You are
about fifty in number. We can count ninety.”
“Including the Tories,” observed the officer.
“No matter who is included, so they are well armed
and ready for action. I am Brandt, of whom you may
have heard much, and probably much that is untrue. But
he is your enemy. Yet he did not come hither to wage
war, but to slay the supposed murderer of his sister. He
was innocent. He is still my brother. For the last time
my arm is round the neck of my brother, and we shall
soon part to meet no more. I will return to that remnant
of the broad country which was once all our own. Shall
I go in peace, or must I fight my way thither?”
“Go in peace. We shall not be the first to break it,”
said the officer.
Brandt then spoke in a loud voice to Esther and Moody,
who were on the summit of the cliff, surrounded by their
followers. He told them that his brother was innocent of
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his sister's blood, and that the one who injured him would
be the foe of Thayendanegea. And he said he had agreed
to a suspension of hostilities on the eastern side of the
Delaware. Then, by the authority vested in him as Grand
Sachem of the Six Nations, he commanded the Indians to
return to the Delaware.
“And now, my brother,” said he, embracing Charles,
“we are reconciled, but we part. Let us never be foes
again. Believe not the extravagant stories told of the
Mohawk chief, and no one shall slander the White Eagle.
Farewell!”
And then, averting his face, Brandt strode away toward
the dense forest. But he had only proceeded a few steps
when the report of a rifle rang in his ear. His first glance
was toward the crest of the cliff, where the small cloud of
smoke still lingered. His next was at Charles, who staggered
forward, and would have fallen, if the great chief
had not caught him in his arms.
A prolonged, thrilling shriek was heard at the cliff.
Then the heavy door was swung back upon the blackened
fireplace of the consumed hut, and Julia sprang forth and
glided frantically toward her beloved. Neither rocks nor
streams nor armed men impeded her course. Her white
robe streaming in the air, her hair hanging down dishevelled,
she rushed forward and threw her arms around her wounded
lover's neck. Brandt relinquished his burden, and, hastily
uttering a few words to the astounded officer, leaped across
the stream like an enraged tiger after his prey. Before a
gun was raised by the astonished soldiers, the great chief
was seen again upon the dizzy height, with his hand grasping
the throat of the murderer.
“He confesses the deed!” cried Brandt. “And he it
was who killed my sister. Behold the vengeance of Thayendanegea!”
He plunged his knife into the breast of the guilty savage,
who sank down at his feet without a struggle. And before
the eyes of the spectators could be turned again in the
direction of the fallen youth, the gigantic chief dragged the
murderer forward and hurled him over the precipice!
“Cold! cold!” said Julia, sitting on the ground, with
the head of the speechless and dying Charles resting
against her bosom. “Cold! cold!” she continued, kissing
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his lips, “and very, very pale!” But the youth was no
paler than herself as she gazed with unmoistened eyes upon
his face. “No! no!” said she, when the white-headed father
of Charles came forward, weeping bitterly, and would
have snatched him from her arms. “He's mine!” said she.
“You shall not tear him away! But the damp earth must
receive him! I will bury him, and I will remain bending
over his grave, like the willow. But I do not weep. I
cannot weep. Why is it so, Kate?” she continued, seeing
the tears of her companion. “You know I loved him,
Kate. Then why do not the tears gush forth? Mr. Jones,
cannot you tell me? Oh, you need not feel his pulse, my
friend. He smiled sweetly—it was for me alone, and I
understood it—and then like the sighing zephyr his spirit
passed away. And, Kate, he died in my arms. And I
do not weep. If I cannot shed tears, I will sing—sing the
rest of my days. Singing is better than weeping. And
yet every one around is shedding tears! Am I not a
very strange girl, Kate? Do not despise me; I cannot
help it.”
“Skippie,” cried the poor old man to his faithful servant,
sobbing at his side, “we will go to France. Make
all the arrangements. And when I, too, am dead, take
my body to Scotland. Then come hither, and convey
thence to the same grave the bones of my son.”
“No! They are mine!” cried Julia. “Although I do
not weep like the rest, we were plighted lovers. I was his
and he was mine—mine forever. We were one. Before
God and man our hearts were joined together. No throb
in his but vibrated in mine. He weeps not now, and I do
not weep. He is dead, and I, too, am dead to the world.
But I will love you still, Kate. And you will help me to
plant flowers over his grave. I cannot dew them with my
tears; but my Maker will send refreshing showers, will he
not, Mr. Jones?”
“Come, my poor child!” said the sighing Baptist,
gently removing her from the body. “This is no place
for you. Come with me to the house of your guardian.”
“Will they bear him thither?” asked Julia, in a low
whisper, clinging to the preacher's arm.
“Yes, if you desire it.”
“Desire it?” said she, her brilliant orbs fixed upon the
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soldiers and others surrounding the body. “I COMMAND
it!” she cried, in a loud voice. “There is a willow,” she
added, “with a million drooping boughs, near the council-tree
beside the brook, where our vows were plighted. There
they shall bury him. Come, Kate; they will follow us.
You must not leave me to-day. I know your father has
sent for you, and for me too, but we will linger a while,
won't we? What would he think of me if I appeared before
him with no tear in my eye? But, Kate,” she continued,
in a sweet, sad voice, as her arm encircled the waist
of her sobbing companion, “my heart is broken. There
is a cold spot upon it. It can never be warm again. Pity
me, Kate. I am very miserable. And see his poor father—
an exile in a strange land, bending over his murdered son!
It was the work of the cruel Esther. O God! vengeance
belongs to thee! I would not crush the smallest
worm in my path. Enough of that! I alone am talking,
while the rest do nothing but weep; and I feel as one
standing on some dreary rock between the living and the
dead; and death has no terrors, for he smiled in death.
Come! But Solo remains. See!” she continued, glancing
back, “my poor Solo lies beside the body. Stay there,
Solo, and see that they bring him to thy mistress.”
Pale and tearless, the poor maiden was led away. The
body was soon after borne along the same path, and the
next day it was placed under the willow. But Julia never
wept. She only chanted the incoherent ballad which her
disordered mind seemed to be ever composing.
Lochiel, bowed with grief and the weight of years, departed
soon after in one of the French ships, and died in
Paris.
After lingering a few days over the grave of the murdered
youth, Julia and Kate were conducted, by the Rev.
Mr. Jones, to the residence of Governor Livingston, near
which were again established the head-quarters of Washington.
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CHAPTER XXVI.
CONCLUSION.
[figure description] Page 332.[end figure description]
Mr. Schooley and his son Richard were plunged into
the depths of misery. The cause of King George was now
truly desperate, and no one really supposed the United
States could ever be conquered. Already the civil
authorities were confiscating the estates of those who had
given aid to the enemy. And, as friend Thomas was aware
that the fact of the sale of his droves of cattle to the
British could not remain unknown, he was endeavouring to
summon the fortitude to bear with Christian humility the
loss of all he held most dear in the world. His only hope
was in his ward. Her intellects were wandering, and, if
she remained non compos mentis, his legal guardianship
might be prolonged. Her estate could not be forfeited.
But then she was a guest at “Liberty Hall,” the residence
of the governor, and Thomas could have no controversy
with him.
Paddy remained on the farm, at the special request of
Julia, who charged him to watch the grave of her loved
one during her absence. And Peter Shaver was the overseer
when Mr. Schooley returned to Burlington. Peter
retained his ass till his death, which occurred some fifteen
years subsequently. The poor animal, which had been so
often shocked at the spilling of blood, was ever an object
of curiosity to the neighbours.
Mr. Van Wiggens, although he could never reconcile
“Vatch” to the black tomcat of his spouse, had the sagacity
to keep Mrs. Van Wiggens herself in a proper state of
conjugal subjection, by means of his pet bear, which he
chained to one of the posts of the porch of the inn.
Solo was the constant companion of his mistress, whose
restoration was despaired of by the best surgeons in the
army.
The commander-in-chief, dining one day with Governor
Livingston, and, having heard some of the particulars of
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Julia's history, expressed a desire to see the poor demented
maiden. Kate led the benign general into the apartment
where Julia was wreathing flowers and forming crowns of
laurel. She looked up, and smiled sweetly, but sadly. Her
paleness remained, and the wild expression of her eyes
seemed not diminished.
Her thoughts were with the dead. Whatever reply she
made to the interrogatories of visitors, she invariably reverted
to the wild woods and to her departed lover. And
her responses were frequently snatches of improvised verses,
which, when one beheld her and listened to her mournful
but musical voice, seemed the appropriate language of
heartbroken maidens.
“I know what you would hear,” said she, as the pitying
Washington gently pressed her hand. “You would have
me repeat my ballad. Listen:—
“On the gentle Wyalusing,
In the sultry month of June;
When the stars begemm'd the heavens,
And earth was silver'd by the moon—
They say, sir, or I've dreamt it, that wandering among
the wild roses by moonlight with him (you shall hear) injured
my intellect. But, pray, don't believe them.
Beside the leaping laughing water,
When the dusky bats were flying,
When the whippoorwill was sighing,
And the katydid was crying,
When the leaves were trembling o'er us,
And purest blossoms bloom'd before us,
Nestling 'gainst his noble—
But, sir, that may be a solemn secret, not to be divulged.
Mr. Schooley, my good guardian, says I ought not to sing
such things. He is a good man, but I don't think his heart
was ever broken. He must have fallen in love in the town,
and not in the wild woods. Please, sir, don't let them
injure my good guardian. He was very kind to me, and
permitted Charles to come whenever he wished.
Together on the Wyalusing,
Or the pebbly Pa-pa-kating,
Or the spreading Susquehanna,
Or the rushing Lackawanna,
Or the whispering Kittaning,
Or the green banks of Neshaming—
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Hand-in-hand we roamed together!
He was true, and I adored him;
But the cruel Queen destroy'd him—
I must stop there to breathe, and I'm sure you'll wait.
Whenever I come to that part I am seized with a suffocating
sensation, and that is the reason why I am panting.
They say, if I could weep — but why should I? I know
he's in heaven. And will I not go thither? You are a
good man, I know, by your face. Say, do you not think
I may meet him in heaven? Oh, pray, do not weep for
me! I cannot weep for him.
“It was 'neath the quiv'ring tree,
At our feet the brawling brook,
He declared his love for me
And—
Mr. Schooley might chide me, if I recited the rest
“But the earth is his cold pillow;
He lies beneath the weeping willow.
And, oh! Julia cannot weep for him! Dear sir, I would
weep if I could! Won't you believe me?”
“Yes, my dear child,” said Washington, bending down
and kissing her ivory forehead.
“I thought so! Yes, you may kiss me if you will.
They call you the father of your country. I am an orphan.
We are good. The good meet in heaven. But do not
weep for me. I am not so unhappy as they think. I have
my dreams and my fancies, and I know his spirit attends
me. Farewell!”
Poor Julia, although undoubtedly impatient for death to
relieve her, survived all her youthful acquaintances except
Wilted Grass, the Delaware chief. She wandered from the
grave of Charles to that of his forest sister on the Kentucky
River, ever accompanied by Gentle Moonlight, the
Thrush's foster-mother. The faithful Solo was their only
protector, until age and infirmities rendered him incapable
of following them. Then Julia remained at her farm, sitting
daily beneath the weeping willow. And when her
gentle companion died, her body was placed beside the lost
boy she had nurtured. But Julia remained, probably unconscious
of the lapse of time, for many weary years,
a lonely dweller among successive generations; and, finally,
when she had attained her eightieth year, departed
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without a groan or a disease, and joined her friends in
heaven.
The family of Schooley, tradition avers, removed to
England. It is said the politic landlord at Burlington,
whom Thomas had established in business, persuaded his
patron, after the confiscation of his lands, to seek indemnity
for Moody's spoliation, and to pursue William Franklin
for the £1000 he owed him. As for the amount due from
himself to the Quaker, he (Brown) was “all right,” and
would reimburse him some day or other.
Bonnel Moody was arrested within the American lines
near Morristown, and hung as a spy.
The Rev. David Jones survived to a good old age. And
when the second war was waged with Great Britain he
again left the pulpit for the field. Many particulars of
his life may be found in the “Field-Book of the Revolution.”
Kate Livingston, likewise, lived to an extreme old age,
and was blessed with a happy family. The only sad
moments of her life, after the fearful scenes she had witnessed
in the conflict for liberty, were when she visited
Julia at her abode near the Rock.
Wilted Grass died only a few years ago near the ocean,
in New Jersey, and was buried in the grave of his fathers.
The Legislature of the State, shortly before his decease,
bestowed a sum of money on the aged chief and the small
remnant of Delawares who dwelt with him, as compensation
for the destruction of their game. The original grants
from the Indians reserved the right of hunting.
Simon Kenton's subsequent career, and Girty's doom,
have been portrayed by a skilful limner of Kentucky, in
two volumes, one entitled “Simon Kenton,” and the other
“The Winter Lodge.”
Of Boone, the hero of so many legends and romances,
it is only necessary for us to say that he died in Missouri,
following the buffalo and Indians as they fled before the
tide of civilization. Some of the adventures of his old
age are described in the first series of “Wild Western
Scenes,” which may have fallen into the hands of the
reader of these pages.
THE END.
