University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.
A Woodman.

The stranger addressed a few words in the Mohawk
language to the stiffened warriors, with an air
of indescribable authority. They lowered their
weapons, and retired to the other extremity of the
room, to which he had waved them with his hand.
He then advanced towards Sybrandt, now become
weak with the loss of blood, and courteously asked
an explanation of the scene, which the young man
briefly gave. The stranger shook his head, and
exclaimed, in a desponding tone,

“Rum—rum—rum! the shame of the white
man; the ruin of the red. What can I do with
these wretched people when my own do all they
can to undo what I have devoted my life to accomplish.”

Then observing that Sybrandt leaned against the
wall, and was gradually sinking in his height, he
asked, anxiously,

“Are you hurt, sir?”

“I believe I am, sir. I feel no pain, but my left
arm seems getting useless;” and overcome by
weakness he sunk down upon the body of Paskingoe.
The master passion of the dying Indian for
a moment animated his waning strength. He
grasped his knife between his feeble fingers, and
raising his arm, unnoticed in the obscurity of the

dark corner, struck a delirious random blow with
the last expiring energy of despair. The knife remained
sticking upright in the floor, and the Indian
chief died with the effort.

“Who is that?” cried the stranger.

“Paskingoe,” muttered one of his party; “the
chief who gave you his lands, and whom you called
brother. Revenge him.”

The stranger made no answer, but proceeded to
examine into the situation of Sybrandt, who had
fainted with loss of blood. He gave a key to one
of his attendants, who descended into the cellar, in
the wall of which was a secret recess where were
kept a variety of articles necessary to the various
privations and accidents incident to travelling or
sojourning far from the haunts of men and the conveniences
of civilized life. The stranger applied
what was proper of these to the case of Sybrandt,
who in a short time recovered from his swoon, and
was accommodated with a mattress from the receptacle
above mentioned. Having seen to all this, the
stranger turned to the Indians of Paskingoe's party,
who were standing in sullen silence, and demanded
the occasion of this fray.

“The white man can tell you. He will make a
good story out of it. Ask him,” said one of them.

“Very well,” replied the stranger, “Take the
body of your chief away to his people, that they
may bury him. The storm is over. Go; and
when you have done this, come to me. I will see
justice done. Go, now, and take care what you
do. Take care!”

The Mohawks placed the body of their chief on
a rude litter made of the sticks which had been
gathered to light the fire, and departed with mournful

steps, shouting the monotonous death-song,
which gradually died away in the distance till it
was heard no more. The stranger then having ascertained
that Sybrandt was in a deep, exhausted
sleep, directed all to be kept quiet, and carelessly
throwing himself upon the floor, with his cheek supported
on his hand, soon fell into a quiet repose,
which was shared by all his companions, with the
exception of one, who was directed to watch the
slumbers of Sybrandt.

The morning dawned bright, clear, and refreshing,
finding all safe and well but our hero, whose ailment,
however, was nothing but weakness. He would have
risen with the rest, but his head grew dizzy, and he
obeyed the injunctions of the stranger to remain quiet
for that day at least.

“We will pursue the amusement of hunting, the
object which in fact brought us here so opportunely,
and it shall go hard but you shall have some venison
for dinner. I would promise you trout too, but the
streams are too much swelled for fishing. Remain
quiet with your old servant, whom I have instructed
what to do, and to-morrow my people shall carry you
to my home on a litter of green boughs, which is
better than all the sedan-chairs.” So saying, he
shook hands with Sybrandt, and departed, observing,
“You have no fever, I see.”

When they were left alone, Tjerck expressed an
honest, heartfelt pleasure at the miraculous escape of
his young master. “I did all I could for young
massa,” said he.

“Yes, you ran away,” said Sybrandt, who felt not
a little indignant at his desertion.

“Aha! massa,” said Tjerck, “who you tink made
dat great war-whoop dat stop de rascal One-eye two,
tree minute, and save your life, hey?”

“I don't know; the Adirondocks, I suppose.”

“Old nigger!” cried Tjerck, with uncontrollable
self-complacency, and laughing with all his might;
“old nigger make it.”

Sybrandt saw the whole plan, and thanked Tjerck
for the prompt diversion he made in his favour, which,
by giving time for the coming of the stranger, undoubtedly
saved his life. He then gradually died
away into the slumber of weakness, while his black
guardian angel sat and watched him with the stillness
of a dead calm in the wilderness.

His repose was long and deep, and he awoke
refreshed and hungry. The stranger and his party
returned from their hunt with plenty of game, and
Sybrandt was allowed to partake sparingly of the
meal which was prepared. He had now leisure to
contemplate the person to whom he owed his rescue
from the drunken ferocity of the One-eye and his
party. He was apparently about fifty years of age,
with a form of the largest and most lofty proportions,
a deep ruddy, yet bronzed complexion, and a
countenance of a most singular combination of expression.
It united those indescribable yet indelible
characteristics which seem inseparable from a
cultivated intellect, with the careless, fearless daring
of one whose life had been passed in the midst of
dangers and the enjoyment of unlimited sway. His
deportment, while it was easy and courteous to all,
betrayed a careless superiority, which both the Indians
and white men seemed tacitly to acknowledge,
obeying implicitly every word he uttered,
every motion of his hand, and every glance of his eye.
His manner and mode of expressing himself sufficiently
indicated that he had sat at good men's feasts
and been where bells had tolled to church, at the
same time that they were totally distinct from those

of the gentlemen Sybrandt had seen at the house of
his uncle. His motions exhibited the ease, facility,
and unembarrassed vigour of an Indian, and there was
a singular force, brevity, and richness in his phraseology
that partook somewhat of the Indian manner of
expression. He wore a hunting dress equally partaking
in the modes of savage and civilized man, and
indeed altogether exhibited a singular confusion of
the peculiarities of the two races. His deportment
towards Sybrandt was kind, at the same time that
his attentions were rather indifferent than very particular.
He took upon himself the direction of our
hero, his merchandise, and affairs, without consulting
or seeming to think it worth while to consult
him.

“To-morrow, at sunrise,” said he, “we shall set
out for home. My people will carry you and your
baggage. The canoe must be left where it is.”
Then turning to his people, “Rest, and be ready by
break of day.”

In a few minutes all was quiet, though, with the
exception of Sybrandt, the floor was their bed, and
their pillow a knapsaek, a log, or perchance a stone.
In the dawn of the morning they set forth in a direction
nearly southwest, through a forest of pines, beeches,
and maples, such as nature produces but once on the
same soil, by the exertion of her unimpaired, youthful
energies. The solemn pines, straight as an arrow,
and without a single limb below a height of a hundred
feet, seeming already shaped for the masts of
some mighty man-of-war, stood side by side, at distances
leaving sufficient space unencumbered by underwood
for the travellers to pass without difficulty.
But when, as it sometimes happened, their course lay
through a rich, juicy bottom land, a new creation
sprung up before them of beeches, maples, and

majestic plane trees, spreading and interlocking their
arms, and forming an impenetrable shade, only
to be visited by the bright rays of the winter sun
when the leaves fall and the branches are bare. Beneath
their damp and gloomy reign sprung up a lesser
race of nature's progeny, consisting of shrubs, and
vines, and plants of every various name, mingling
and matting together, and forming a succession of
obstacles which only the strength, skill, and perseverance
of a woodman might overcome.

The litter of boughs in which Sybrandt was placed
was carried alternately by the followers of the
stranger, and certainly a more easy mode of conveyance
was never devised for an invalid. Rude, and
silent, and monotonous as was the forest through
which their journey lay, it was not devoid of gayety
or incident. Sometimes the keen eye of one of the
party would detect a black squirrel looking down
from the topmost branches of one of these towering
pines, and barking, as it were, in derision. The
leader would then propose some little prize for bringing
it down with a single bullet, and without drawing
blood. A halt would then be made for the purpose
of disputing the prize. None but a woodman could
even distinguish these little animals among the dark
foliage of the lofty pines, clinging close to the limb,
and almost incorporating themselves with the rough
bark. Each took his turn, and the object was to
strike the bark of the tree with the ball directly where
it came in contact with the body of the squirrel, by
which he would be stunned, and fall to the ground
without any external wound. Few were capable of
this feat on the first trial, and loud were the shouts
that echoed through the forest at the successive abortive
attempts. When each one had tried without

success, the leader would utter some little epithet of
contempt, bid them stand aside, and never fail to
bring the little animal down without breaking his
skin. So, if they met with any difficulties in their
march which the strength, skill, or intrepidity of the
others could not surmount, he took the lead and labouring
oar, and conquered every obstacle of nature
by superior strength, management, or daring. It
was by frequent instances of this sort that the mystery
of his unbounded sway over his people was explained
to Sybrandt. The human character can only be perfected
and consummated by the union of superior
knowledge and superior strength, directed and animated
by a courage that dares all dangers, defies all
obstacles.

At midday they halted in an open space for the
purpose of rest and refreshment. “On this spot,”
said the stranger, carelessly, “on this spot, about fifteen
years ago, was fought a bloody battle between
the Hurons and the Mohawks. We were taken by
surprise and suffered dreadfully; but—” and his eye
kindled in triumph, “we, I and my people, made
the cowards flee at last, and shot them down like
deer. The name and the nation was extinguished on
this spot at a single blow. History says nothing of
this; but if a bedrid king or superannuated queen
had died that day, it would have been carefully recorded.
The causes which change the destinies of
men and the face of the earth lie unseen and unnoticed,
while little things and little men are carefully
handed down to future times as mighty agents in the
vast business of the universe. Such is history, and
in fact tradition is no better. One conceals or overlooks
the truth; the other tattles falsehoods.” And
he mused for a little time, as if applying these observations
to his own past experience.