CHAPTER XV. A Night Adventure.
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“It's plaguy hard,” muttered Timothy to himself.
“What?” quoth Sybrandt.
“Why, not to have the privilege of shooting one
of these varmints.”
“Not another word,” whispered Sybrandt; “we
may be overheard from the shore.”
“Does he think I don't know what's what?”
again muttered Timothy, plying his paddle with a
celerity and silence that Sybrandt vainly tried to
equal.
The night gradually grew dark as pitch. All
became of one colour, and the earth and the air
were confounded together in utter obscurity, at least
to the eyes of Sybrandt Westbrook. Not a breath
of wind disturbed the foliage of the trees, that hung
invisible to all eyes but those of Timothy, who
seemed to see best in the dark; not an echo, not a
whisper disturbed the dead silence of nature, as they
darted along unseen and unseeing,—at least our
hero could see nothing but darkness.
“Whisht!” aspirated Timothy, at length, so low
that he could scarcely hear himself; and after
making a few strokes with his paddle, so as to shoot
the boat out of her course, cowered himself down to
the bottom. Sybrandt did the same, peering just
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over the side of the boat, to discover if possible the
reason of Timothy's manœuvres. Suddenly he
heard, or thought he heard, the measured sound
of paddles dipping lightly into the water. A few
minutes more, and he saw five or six little lights
glimmering indistinctly through the obscurity, apparently
at a great distance. Timothy raised himself
up suddenly, seized his gun, and pointed it for
a moment at one of the lights; but recollecting the
injunction of Sir William, immediately resumed his
former position. In a few minutes the sound of
the paddles died away, and the lights disappeared.
“What was that?” whispered Sybrandt.
“The Frenchmen are turning the tables on us, I
guess,” replied the other. “If that boat isn't going
a-spying jist like ourselves, I'm quite out in my calculation.”
“What! with lights? They must be great
fools.”
“It was only the fire of their pipes, which the
darkness made look like so many candles. I'm
thinking what a fine mark these lights would have
bin; and how I could have peppered two or three
of them, if Sir William had not bin so plaguy obstinate.”
“Peppered them! why, they were half-a-dozen
miles off.”
“They were within fifty yards—the kritters; I
could have broke all their pipes as easy as kiss my
hand.”
“How do you know they were kritters, as you
call the Indians!”
“Why, did you ever hear so many Frenchmen
make so little noise?”
This reply was perfectly convincing; and
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Sybrandt again enjoining silence, they proceeded with
the same celerity, and in the same intensity of darkness
as before, for more than an hour. This
brought them, at the swift rate they were going, a
distance of at least twenty miles from the place of
their departure.
Turning a sharp angle, at the expiration of the
time just specified, Timothy suddenly stopped his
paddle as before, and cowered down at the bottom
of the canoe. Sybrandt had no occasion to inquire
the reason of this action; for happening to look
towards the shore, he could discover at a distance
innumerable lights glimmering and flashing amid the
obscurity, and rendering the darkness beyond the
sphere of their influence still more profound. These
lights appeared to extend several miles along what
he supposed to be the strait or lake, which occasionally
reflected their glancing rays upon its quiet
bosom.
“There they are, the kritters,” whispered Timothy,
exultingly; “we've treed 'em at last, I swow.
Now, mister, let me ask you one question—will you
obey my orders?”
“If I like them,” said Sybrandt.
“Ay, like or no like. I must be captain for a
little time, at least.”
“I have no objection to benefit by your experience.”
“Can you play Ingen when you are put to it?”
“I have been among them, and know something
of their character and manners.”
“Can you talk Ingen?”
“No!”
“Ah! your education has been sadly neglected.
But come, there's no time to waste in talking Ingen
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or English. We must get right in the middle of
these kritters. Can you creep on all-fours without
waking up a cricket?”
“No!”
“Plague on it! I wonder what Sir William
meant by sending you with me. I could have done
better by myself. Are you afeard?”
“Try me.”
“Well, then, I must make the best of the matter.
The kritters are camped out—I see by their fires—
by themselves. I can't stop to tell you every thing;
but you must keep close to me, do jist as I do, and
say nothing; that's all.”
“I am likely to play a pretty part, I see.”
“Play! you'll find no play here, I guess, mister.
Set down close; make no noise; and if you go to
sneeze or cough, take right hold of your throat, and
let it go downwards.”
Sybrandt obeyed his injunctions; and Timothy
proceeded towards the lights, which appeared much
farther off in the darkness than they really were,
handling his paddle with such lightness and dexterity
that Sybrandt could not hear the strokes. In
this manner they swiftly approached the encampment,
until they could distinguish a confused noise
of shoutings and hallooings, which gradually broke
on their ears in discordant violence. Timothy
stopped his paddle and listened.
“It is the song of those tarnal kritters, the Utawas.
They're in a drunken frolic, as they always
are the night before going to battle. I know the
kritters, for I've popped off a few, and can talk and
sing their songs pretty considerably, I guess. So
we'll be among 'em right off. Don't forget what I
ttold you about doing as I do, and holding your tongue.”
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Cautiously plying his paddle, he now shot in
close to the shore whence the sounds of revelry
proceeded, and made the land at some little distance,
that he might avoid the sentinels, whom they
could hear ever and anon challenging each other.
They then drew up the light canoe into the bushes,
which here closely skirted the waters. “Now leave
all behind but yourself, and follow me,” whispered
Timothy, as he carefully felt whether the muskets
were well covered from the damps of the night; and
then laid himself down on his face, and crawled
along under the bushes with the quiet celerity of a
snake in the grass.
“Must we leave our guns behind,” whispered
Sybrandt.
“Yes, according to orders; but it's a plaguy hard
case. Yet upon the whole it's best; for if I was
to get a fair chance at one of these kritters, I believe
in my heart my gun would go off clean of itself.
But hush! shut your mouth as close as a powder-horn.”
After proceeding some distance, Sybrandt getting
well scratched by the briars, and finding infinite
difficulty in keeping up with Timothy, the latter
stopped short.
“Here the kritters are,” said he, in the lowest
whisper.
“Where?” replied the other in the same tone.
“Look right before you.”
Sybrandt followed the direction, and beheld a
group of five or six Indians seated round a fire, the
waning lustre of which cast a fitful light upon their
dark countenances, whose savage expression was
heightened to ferocity by the stimulant of the debauch
in which they were engaged. They sat on
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the ground swaying to and fro, backward and forward,
and from side to side, ever and anon passing round
the canteen from one to the other, and sometimes
rudely snatching it away, when they thought either
was drinking more than his share. At intervals
they broke out into yelling and discordant songs,
filled with extravagant boastings of murders, massacres,
burnings, and plunderings, mixed up with
threatenings of what they would do to the red-coat
long knives on the morrow. One of these songs
recited the destruction of a village, and bore a striking
resemblance to the bloody catastrophe of poor
Timothy's wife and children. Sybrandt could not
understand it, but he could hear the quick suppressed
breathings of his companion, who, when it was done,
aspirated, in a tone of smothered vengeance, “If I
only had my gun!”
“Stay here a moment,” whispered he, as he crept
cautiously towards the noisy group, which all at once
became perfectly quiet, and remained in the attitude
of listening.
“Huh!” muttered one, who appeared by his dress
to be the principal.
Timothy replied in a few Indian words, which Sybrandt
did not comprehend; and raising himself from
the ground, suddenly appeared in the midst of them.
A few words were rapidly interchanged; and Timothy
then brought forward his companion, whom he presented
to the Utawas, who welcomed him and handed
the canteen, now almost empty.
“My brother does not talk,” said Timothy.
“Is he dumb?” asked the chief of the Utawas.
“No; but he has sworn not to open his mouth
till he has struck the body of a long knife.”
“Good,” said the other; “he is welcome.”
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After a pause he went on, at the same time eying
Sybrandt with suspicion; though his faculties were
obscured by the fumes of the liquor he still continued
to drink, and hand round at short intervals.
“I don't remember the young warrior. Is he of
our tribe?”
“He is; but he was stolen by the Mohawks many
years ago, and only returned lately.”
“How did he escape?”
“He killed two chiefs while they were asleep by
the fire, and ran away.”
“Good,” said the Utawas; and for a few moments
sunk into a kind of stupor, from which he suddenly
roused himself, and grasping his tomahawk started
up, rushed towards Sybrandt, and raising his deadly
weapon, stood over him in the attitude of striking.
Sybrandt remained perfectly unmoved, waiting the
stroke.
“Good,” said the Utawas again; “I am satisfied;
the Utawas never shuts his eyes at death. He is
worthy to be our brother. He shall go with us to
battle to-morrow.”
“We have just come in time,” said Timothy.
“Does the white chief march against the red-coats
to-morrow?”
“He does.”
“Has he men enough to fight them?”
“They are like the leaves on the trees,” said the
other.
By degrees Timothy drew from the Utawas chief
the number of Frenchmen, Indians, and coureurs
de bois, which composed the army; the time when
they were to commence their march; the course
they were to take, and the outlines of the plan of
attack, in case the British either waited for them in
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the fort or met them in the field. By the time he
had finished his examination, the whole party with
the exception of Timothy, Sybrandt, and the chief,
were fast asleep. In a few minutes after, the two
former affected to be in the same state, and began to
snore lustily. The Uttawas chief nodded from side
to side; then sunk down like a log, and remained
insensible to every thing around him, in the sleep of
drunkenness.
Timothy lay without motion for a while, then
turned himself over, and rolled about from side to
side, managing to strike against each of the party in
succession. They remained fast asleep. He then
cautiously raised himself, and Sybrandt did the same.
In a moment Timothy was down again, and Sybrandt
followed his example without knowing why, until he
heard some one approach, and distinguished, as they
came nigh, two officers, apparently of rank. They
halted near the waning fire, and one said to the other
in French, in a low tone:
“The beasts are all asleep; it is time to wake
them. Our spies are come back, and we must
march.”
“Not yet,” replied the other; “let them sleep an
hour longer, and they will wake sober.” They then
passed on, and when their footsteps were no longer
heard, Timothy again raised himself up, motioning
our hero to lie still. After ascertaining by certain
tests which experience had taught him that the
Indians still continued in a profound sleep, he proceeded
with wonderful dexterity and silence to shake
the priming from each of the guns in succession.
After this, he took their powder-horns and emptied
them; then seizing up the tomahawk of the Utawas
chief, which had dropped from his hand, he stood
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over him for a moment, with an expression of deadly
hatred which Sybrandt had never before seen in his
or in any other countenance. The intense desire
of killing one of the kritters, as he called them,
struggled a few moments with his obligations to obey
the orders of Sir William; but the latter at length
triumphed, and motioning Sybrandt, they crawled
away with the silence and celerity with which they
came; launched their light canoe, and plied their paddles
with might and main. “The morning breeze is
springing up,” said Timothy, “and it will soon be
daylight. We must be tarnal busy.”
And busy they were, and swiftly did the light
canoe slide over the wave, leaving scarce a wake
behind her. As they turned the angle which hid
the encampment from their view, Timothy ventured
to speak a little above his breath.
“It's lucky for us that the boat we passed coming
down has returned, for it's growing light apace.
I'm only sorry for one thing.”
“What's that?” asked Sybrandt.
“That I let that drunken Utawas alone. If I had
only bin out on my own bottom, he'd have bin stun
dead in a twinkling, I guess.”
“And you too, I guess,” said Sybrandt, adopting
his peculiar phraseology; “you would have been
overtaken and killed.”
“Who, I? I must be a poor kritter if I can't dodge
half a dozen of these drunken varmints.”
A few hours of sturdy exertion brought them at
length within sight of Ticonderoga, just as the red
harbingers of morning striped the pale green of the
skies. Star after star disappeared, as Timothy observed,
like candles that had been burning all night
and gone out of themselves, and as they struck the
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foot of the high bluff whence they had departed,
the rays of the sun just tipped the peaks of the high
mountains rising towards the west. Timothy then
shook hands with our hero.
“You're a hearty kritter,” said he, “and I'll tell
Sir William how you looked at that tarnal tomahawk
as if it had bin an old pipe-stem.”
Without losing a moment, they proceeded to the
quarters of Sir William, whom they found waiting
for them with extreme anxiety. He extended both
hands towards our hero, and eagerly exclaimed—
“What luck, my lads? I have been up all night,
waiting your return.”
“Then you will be quite likely to sleep sound to-night,”
quoth master Timothy, unbending the intense
rigidity of his leathern countenance. “I am of opinion
if a man wants to have a real good night's rest,
he's only to set up the night before, and he may
calculate upon it with sartinty.”
“Hold your tongue, Timothy,” said Sir William,
good-humouredly, “or else speak to the purpose.
Have you been at the enemy's camp?”
“Right in their very bowels,” said Timothy.
Sir William proceeded to question, and Sybrandt
and Timothy to answer, until he drew from them all
the important information of which they had possessed
themselves. He then dismissed Timothy
with cordial thanks and a purse of yellow boys,
which he received with much satisfaction.
“It's not of any great use to me, to be sure,” said
he as he departed; “but some how or other I love
to look at the kritters.”
“As to you, Sybrandt Westbrook, you have fulfilled
the expectations I formed of you on our first
acquaintance. You claim a higher reward; for you
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have acted from higher motives and at least equal
courage and resolution. His majesty shall know of
this; and, in the mean time, call yourself Major
Westbrook, for such you are from this moment.
Now go with me to the commander-in-chief, who
must know of what you heard and saw.”
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Paulding, James Kirke, 1778-1860 [1831], The Dutchman's fireside, volume 2 (J. & J. Harper, New York) [word count] [eaf308v2].
