University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.
THE WANDERERS.

Park Benjamin.

—Sprague.

The glad spring has come again over the land,
and nowhere do the flowers spring more joyfully
beneath her flushing footsteps than in the lovely valley
of the Mohawk. Here the seeds of civil discord
lie crushed, or, at least, inert, at present. The
storm of war has rolled off to distant borders; or if,
indeed, it be lowering near again, its terrors are unfelt,
because unseen. The husbandman has once
more driven his team afield, free from the apprehension
that he may return to find a blazing roof-tree

and slaughtered household when the close of
day shall relieve him from his toils. The wife once
more has joyed to see him go forth whistling on his
way, confident that the protector of her children
will not fall slaughtered in the ploughshare's furrow,
but return to glad her eyes at nightfall. Alas!
these simple people dream not that the present
calm is but a breathing-spell in the terrible struggle
which, ere it pass away, shall print every cliff of this
beautiful region with a legend of horror, and story
its romantic stream with deeds of fiendish crime.

Clad in the deepest mourning, the orphan heiress
of the Hawksnest sits by the trellised window, gazing
out upon the lovely fields, of which the supposed
death of her lover and relative has made her the
possessor. Her wild brother, surrendering his share
in the estate to her, has gone to seek a soldier's fortune
or a patriot's death by fighting in the armies
of his country. The green mound that covers the
remains of her last surviving parent and of her only
sister is seen through a vista of trees upon a swell
of land beyond. It is the mellow hour of twilight,
when the thoughtful heart loves best to ponder upon
such mementoes of the departed. And has Alida,
when her eye o'erbrims, and her hands are clasped
in agitation at the thought of the cruel fate which
has overtaken her household—has she no thought,
no one woman's regretful tear, for the lover who
had dared everything to shield those who were dear
to her from harm; the lover who had thrown away
his own life in the effort to snatch her from a captivity
worse than death?

She had thought of him. She now thought of
him. She had too often and too long thought of
him. At least, sometimes she herself so believed,
when accusing herself of dwelling more upon his
memory than upon that of those who ought to be

dearer to her. But, then, was there no excuse for
that which her woman's heart straightway supplied?
For her sister and father it was pleasurable, but vain,
to grieve. It was challenging the will of Heaven
ever to dwell gloomily upon their fate, which Heaven,
for good or ill, had fixed for ever. But of
Greyslaer she could think hopefully, as of one who
might still return to share her friendship and receive
her gratitude. “Her friendship!” Yes, that was
the word, if her thoughts had been syllabled to
utterance when she hoped for Greyslaer's return.
But there were moments when she hoped not thus;
moments of dark conviction that he had ceased to
be upon this earth; that death had overtaken him
as well as others for whom she was better schooled
to grieve.

That black death is a strange touchstone of the
human heart. How instantly it brings our real feelings
to the surface! How it reawakens and calls
out our stiffly accorded esteem! How it quickens
into impetuous life our reluctant tenderness, that
has been withheld from its object till it can avail no
more!

Strange inconsistency of woman's nature! Alida
mourned the dead Greyslaer as if he had been her
affianced lover; but hoped for the reappearance of
the living one as of a man who could never be more
to her than a cherished friend—a brother—a younger
brother!

Alack! young Max, couldst thou but now steal
beside that twilight window, hear those murmured
words of sorrow, and take that taper hand which is
busied in brushing away those fast-dropping tears,
thy presence at such a melting moment might bring
a deeper solace, call out a softer feeling than simple
joy at recovery of a long-lost friend. Alack! that

moments so propitious to a lover should pass away
for naught!

And where, then, is Greyslaer? The autumn
was not spent idly by his friends in exploring the
wilderness for traces of his fate; and even in midwinter
Balt has crossed the Garoga lakes on snow-shoes,
followed up the cascades of Konnedieyu, and
penetrated deep into the Sacondaga country upon
the same errand. The spot where Brant once held
his secret camp, and to which his captives were
carried, has been twice examined since Alida lent
her aid to direct Balt to the spot. But the wigwams
were long since deserted, and the snow, which
beat down and broke their flimsy frames, obliterated
every track by which the migrating Indians
could be followed. Balt again took up the search
the moment the severity of winter became relaxed.
He has now followed the spring in her graceful
mission northward; and the lakes of the Upper
Hudson, the wild recesses of the Adirondack Mountains,
that mysterious wilderness which no white
man has yet explored, is said to be the scene of his
faithful wanderings. Thither we will soon follow
him. But first, however, we must go back some
months, and take up the thread of our narrative at
the squaw camp of Thayendanagea, if we would
follow out the fortunes of Greyslaer from the moment
when the desperado Valtmeyer so fearfully
crossed his path.

The first red streaks of dawn were beginning to
dapple the east, when the luckless captive found
himself traversing a deep hemlock forest, with “The
Spreading Dew” for his guide. The Indian girl,
after reviving him from the stunning effects of the
blow which had prostrated him, by sprinkling water
upon his forehead, had bound up the contusion with
a fillet of colewort leaves, which was kept in its place

by a strip of strouding torn from her own dress;
and, urging her still bewildered patient from the
scene of his mishap, had thridded the swamp and
guided him to the hills in the rear of the Indian
camp. These hills stretch away toward the north,
increasing continually in altitude as they recede
from the Mohawk, until they finally swell into those
stupendous highlands known as the Adirondack
Mountains.

Greyslaer, though ignorant of the precise geography
of this Alpine region, had still some idea of the
vast wilderness which extended toward the Canada
border; and when he saw his guide, after reaching
a rapid and turbulent stream, turn her face to the
northward, and strike up along its banks, as if about
to follow up the water to the mountain lake in which
it probably headed, he paused, and was compelled,
for the first time, to reflect upon what use he should
make of his newly-recovered liberty, and which
way it were best for him now to direct his steps.
His first object must be, of course, to reach the
nearest body of his friends. But, since the events
in which he had been an actor, and those which
might have transpired during the weeks that he was
ill and a prisoner, he knew not where those friends
might be found. He was ignorant what changes
might have taken place in the valley of the Mohawk,
or which party might have the ascendency now that
the spirit of civil discord was fairly let loose in that
once tranquil region. Should he fall into the hands
of some straggling band of Tories, or should he even
venture to claim the hospitality of those who, but a
month since, had stood neutral while the conflict
was impending, he might find himself seized upon
by some new convert to the royal party, who would
gladly afford the most lively proofs of his newborn
zeal for the crown by securing so active a partisan

of the patriot cause. The city of Albany was,
therefore, his only safe destination, if he would preserve
that liberty of action, by the preservation of
which alone he could hope to succour Alida.

He determined, therefore, not to venture descending
into the lower country till he could strike it at
least as far east as Schenectady. But how, if he concluded
to make this long circuit through the woods,
could he find his way amid the wild forests he must
traverse? Was this lonely Indian girl, who was
little more than a child, to be his only guide? and,
if so, how were they to procure subsistence in a
journey through the wilderness, where the path was
so toilsome that many days must elapse before he
could accomplish the distance which, upon an ordinary
road, can be traversed in one? Greyslaer
abruptly broke off these unsatisfactory reflections
by asking his companion whither she was now guiding
him. The reply of “The Dew” told him that
much might be gained by admitting her into his
counsels. The foresight of the Indian maid had anticipated
at least the most serious of the difficulties
which embarrassed her companion. She was leading
him to the Garoga lakes, where her tribesmen
had once had a fishing camp, in which they might
at least find a shelter from the elements, and where
Greyslaer could readily obtain subsistence for himself
until “The Dew” could make her way to the
settlements and gain some tidings of his friends, or,
at least, procure him some more eligible guide than
herself from the lower castle of the Mohawks; a
small band of that tribe, under their leader Hendrick,
being friendly to the patriot cause. Greyslaer
hoped, however, that if he could once secure a
retreat, where, for a few days, he should be safe
from pursuit, he might find means to communicate
with his faithful and cherished follower, old Balt,

if, indeed, the stout old forester had not perished
in the fray in which he himself was taken prisoner.

These anxious reflections upon the chances of the
future served for a while to turn his thoughts from
a more bitter channel. But the recollection of the
scene in which Alida had been torn from his side
now recurred with all its horrors.

It is a hard thing to love vainly. It is a hard
thing for the young heart, that has given its first
generous burst of affection to another, to be flung
back upon itself, shocked, borne down, blasted upon
the very threshold of existence. The growth of the
sentiment in some minds—in those which love most
deeply—is often the first emotion that has ever compelled
them to look into their own souls; that has
ever made them fully aware of the sentient and
spiritual essence which they bear within this earthly
tabernacle. And to surrender that sentiment,
seems like parting with the vital spirit that animates
them. Such surrenderment of their early dreams
is, however, the fate of thousands; for love—young
love—like the Bird of Lightning in the Iroquois fable,
which bears the flame from Heaven to teach
men only where first the purifying element had
birth, seems, like the lightning, to fulfil his mission,
reckless where'er his burning wings may sweep, so
that his mysterious errand be accomplished.

But Greyslaer's was no common tale of misplaced
hopes and unrequited attachment. He could not
fling from him the image of Alida as an idle vision
of his dreaming boyhood. Her sorrows had become
his own; and the love which might have perished
from hopelessness seemed born anew from
sympathy; ay, though he were doomed hereafter to
have neither part nor lot in aught else belonging to
her, save this share in her sorrows only, yet such
community of grief was so dear to him, that the

world had now no prize for which Greyslaer would
have bartered his gloomy heritage of wo. Alas!
what a joyless and barren destiny did he thus embrace!
Flinging his fresh and blossoming youth,
like a worthless weed, away; grafting upon his ripening
manhood a shoot of bitterness, that must
dwarf its energies and wither its fruit of promise.

The shrill burst of the Indian warwhoop startled
Greyslaer from the stern revery with which we have
ventured to blind our own reflections while detailing
its general character. The wild cry seemed to
come from beneath his very feet. He recoiled a
step, and gazed eagerly down the rocky defile he
was descending. The sumach and sassafras grew
thick and heavy, imbowering the broken path below.
The Indian girl was nowhere to be seen. He
turned and threw a hurried glance along the sides
of the glen, where ledges of rock here and there
cut the foliage horizontally before him. He caught
a glimpse, as of the figure of the light-footed maiden
scaling the walls of the glen, and retreating from
him. He advanced a pace to see if it were indeed
her who was thus flying from him at his utmost
need. On the instant, a tomahawk, hurtled through
the air and cleaving the light branches near, buried
itself in a maple-tree beside him. Quick as light,
Greyslaer seized the weapon and plucked it from
the bark in which it quivered. But, instantaneous
as was the movement, it did not avail him; for, as
he was in the act of wheeling round to confront the
peril in the direction whence the hatchet came, he
was grappled in the arms of a sinewy Indian. Down
they both went together, the Indian uppermost; and
so completely did he seem to have Greyslaer at advantage,
that he leisurely addressed him while partly
raising himself to draw his knife.

“My broder thought it time to leave the camp

when Isaac come, eh, my broder? Aha!” And,
as the miscreant spoke, he made a motion across the
scull of his prostrate prisoner, as if he felt tempted
to go through the ceremony of scalping while life,
yet vigorous in his veins, should give a zest to the
cruelty.

But Greyslaer was not the man to be sportively
handled in a death encounter. His dark eye followed
the gleaming weapon, as the barbarian flourished
it above his head, with a glance as keen as
that of the hawk-eyed Indian. He had fallen with
one arm under him, and, happily, it was that which
held the tomahawk, which thus escaped the notice
of his foe. It was for the moment pinioned
to the ground, not less by the weight of his own
body than by that of the savage; and the force with
which he had been hurled to the earth so paralyzed
the strength of Greyslaer, that he did not at first attempt
to extricate his hand. But now, throwing
back his head, as if he shrunk from the knife that
was offered at it, he suddenly arched his back so as
to lift the savage and himself together; and, slipping
his arm from under him as the other bore him down
again by throwing the full weight of his person
lengthwise upon him, he dealt a side blow with the
hatchet which nearly crushed the scull of the Indian.
The fellow relaxed his grip of Greyslaer's throat
in an instant, and rolled over, and lay as if stricken
to death upon the spot, while, breathless and disordered,
young Max regained his feet.