 | CHAPTER IV. Wyandotté, or, The hutted knoll |  |
4. CHAPTER IV.
Are gone to Bolingbroke, dispersed and fled.”
Richard III.
This was startling intelligence to receive just as night
had shut in, and under the other circumstances of the case.
Touching the men who still remained, captain Willoughby
conceived it prudent to inquire into their characters and
names, in order to ascertain the ground he stood on, and to
govern his future course accordingly. He put the question
to the serjeant, therefore, as soon as he could lead him far
enough from the little array, to be certain he was out of
ear-shot.
“We have Michael O'Hearn, Jamie Allen, the two carpenters,
the three niggers, Joel, and the three Dutchmen
that last came into the settlement, and the two lads that
Strides engaged at the beginning of the year, left,” was the
answer. “These, counting your honour and myself, make
just fifteen men; quite enough yet, I should think, to
make good the house, in case of an assault — though I fear
everything like an outwork must be abandoned.”
“On the whole, these are the best of our men,” returned
the captain; “I mean the most trustworthy. I count on
Mike, Jamie, and the blacks, as being as much to be relied
on as we are ourselves. Joel, too, is a man of resources,
if he will but do his duty under fire.”
“Corporal Strides is still an untried soldier, your honour;
though recruits, even, sometimes do wonders. Of course, I
shall reduce the guard to half its former strength, as the
men must have some sleep, sir.”
“We must depend very much on your vigilance and
mine, to-night, Joyce. You shall take the guard till one,
when I will stand it for the rest of the night. I will speak
to the men before you dismiss them. An encouraging word,
just now, may be worth a platoon to us.”
The serjeant seldom dissented from any suggestion of his
commanding officer, and the scheme was carried out on the
spot. The lantern was so placed as to permit the captain to
see the heterogeneous row of countenances that was drawn
up before him, and he proceeded:
“It seems, my friends,” he said, “that some of our people
have been seized with a panic, and have deserted. These
mistaken men have not only fled themselves, but they have
induced their wives and children to follow them. A little
reflection will show you to what distress all must be reduced
by this ill-judged flight. Fifty miles from another settlement
of any size, and more than thirty from even a single hut,
beyond the cabin of a hunter, days must pass before they
can reach a place of safety, even should they escape the
savage foe that we know to be scouring the woods. The
women and children will not have sufficient art to conceal
their trail, nor sufficient strength to hold out against hunger
and fatigue many hours. God forgive them for what they
have done, and guide them through the difficulties and pains
to do our whole duty, or, at once to retire, with the consent
of each other. If there is a man among you, then, who
apprehends the consequences of standing to his arms, and
of defending this house, let him confess it frankly; he shall
have leave to depart, with all that belongs to him, taking
food and the means of subsistence and defence with him. I
wish no man to remain with me and mine, but he who can
do it cheerfully. The night is now dark, and, by quitting
the Hut at an early hour, such a start might be gained over
any pursuers, as to place him in comparative security before
morning. If any such man is here, let him now speak out
honestly, and fear nothing. The gate shall be opened for
his march.”
The captain paused, but not a soul answered. A common
sentiment of loyalty seemed to bind every one of the listeners
to his duty. The dark eyes of the negroes rolled along the
short rank to see who would be the first to desert their master,
and grins of delight showed the satisfaction with
which they noted the effect of the appeal. As for Mike, he
felt too strongly to keep silence, and he muttered the passing
impressions aloud.
“Och!”—growled the county Leitrim-man—“Is it a good
journey that I wish the runaways? That it isn't, nor many
a good male either, as they trudge alang t'rough the woods,
with their own consciences forenent their eyes, pricking
them up to come back, like so many t'ieves of the wor-r-ld,
as they are, every mother's son of 'em, women and all. I'd
nivir do that; no, not if my head was all scalp, down to the
soles of my fut, and an Injin was at every inch of it, to cut
out his summer clothes of my own skin. Talk of religion
amang sich cr'athures! — Why, there isn't enough moral in
one of thim to carry him through the shortest prayer the
Lord allows a christian to utter. Divil burn'em say I, and
that's my kindest wish in their behalf.”
The captain waited patiently for this soliloquy to terminate;
then he dismissed the men, with a few more words
of encouragement, and his thanks for the fidelity they, at
least, had shown. By this time the night had got to be dark,
and the court was much more so, on account of the shadows
of the buildings, than places in the open air. As the captain
by the light of the lantern the latter held, a figure
standing at no great distance, quite dimly seen on account
of its proximity to the walls of the Hut. It was clearly a
man; and as all the males able to bear arms, a single sentinel
outside the court excepted, were supposed to be in the
group that had not yet separated, the necessity of ascertaining
the character of this unlooked-for visiter flashed on
the minds of both the old soldiers at the same instant. Joyce
raised the lantern, as they moved quickly towards the motionless
form, and its light glanced athwart a pair of wild,
glowing, dark eyes, and the red visage of an Indian.
“Nick!” exclaimed the captain, “is that you? — What
has brought you here again, and how have you entered the
palisades? — Do you come as a friend, to aid us, or as an
enemy?”
“Too much question, cap'in—too much like squaw; ask
all togeder. Go to book-room; Nick follow; tell all he got
to say.”
The captain whispered the serjeant to ascertain whether
the watch without was vigilant, when he led the way to the
library, where, as he expected, he found his wife and daughters,
anxiously waiting his appearance.
“Oh! Hugh, I trust it is not as bad as we feared!” cried
the mother, as the captain entered the room, closely attended
by the Tuscarora; “our men cannot be so heartless as to
desert us at such a moment!”
The captain kissed his wife, said a word or two of encouragement,
and pointed to the Indian.
“Nick!” exclaimed all three of the females, in a breath.
Though the tones of their voices denoted very different sensations,
at the unexpected appearance of their old acquaintance.
Mrs. Willoughby's exclamation was not without pleasure,
for she thought the man her friend; Beulah's was
filled with alarm, little Evert and savage massacres suddenly
crossing the sensitive mind of the young mother; while
Maud's tone had much of the stern resolution that she had
summoned to sustain her in a moment of such fearful trial.
“Yes, Nick — Sassy Nick,” repeated the Indian, in his
guttural voice—“Ole friend—you no glad see him?”
“That will depend on your errand,” interposed the captain.
“Are you one of the party that is now lying at the
mill? — but, stop; how did you get within the palisades?
First answer me that.”
“Come in. Tree no good to stop Injin. Can't do it
wid branches, how do it widout? Want plenty of musket
and plenty of soldier to do dat. Dis no garrison, cap'in, to
make Nick afeard. Always tell him too much hole to be
tight.”
“This is not answering my question, fellow. By what
means did you pass the palisades?”
“What means? — Injin means, sartain. Came like cat,
jump like deer, slide like snake. Nick great Tuscarora
chief; know well how warrior march, when he dig up
hatchet.”
“And Nick has been a great hanger-on of garrisons, and
should know the use that I can make of his back. You
will remember, Tuscarora, that I have had you flogged,
more than once, in my day.”
This was said menacingly, and with more warmth, perhaps,
than was prudent. It caused the listeners to start, as
if a sudden and new danger rose before their eyes, and the
anxious looks he encountered warned the captain that he
was probably going too far. As for Nick, himself, the gathering
thunder-cloud is not darker than his visage became
at the words he heard; it seemed by the moral writhing of
his spirit as if every disgracing blow he had received was at
that instant torturing his flesh anew, blended with the keenest
feelings of ignominy. Captain Willoughby was startled at
the effect he had produced; but it was too late to change his
course; and he remained in dignified quiet, awaiting the
workings of the Tuscarora's mind.
It was more than a minute ere Nick made any reply.
Gradually, but very slowly, the expression of his visage
changed. It finally became as stoical in expression as severe
training could render the human countenance, and as
unmoved as marble. Then he found the language he
wanted.
“Listen,” said the Indian, sternly. “Cap'in ole man.
Got a head like snow on rock. He bold soldier; but he
no got wisdom enough for gray hair. Why he put he hand
dat. Last winter he cold; fire wanted to make him warm.
Much ice, much storm, much snow. World seem bad—fit
only for bear, and snake, dat hide in rock. Well; winter
gone away; ice gone away; snow gone away; storm gone
away. Summer come, in his place. Ebbery t'ing good—
ebbery t'ing pleasant. Why t'ink of winter, when summer
come, and drive him away wid pleasant sky?”
“In order to provide for its return. He who never thought
of the evil day, in the hour of his prosperity, would find that
he has forgotten, not only a duty, but the course of wisdom.”
“He not wise!” said Nick, sternly. “Cap'in pale-face
chief. He got garrison; got soldier; got musket. Well,
he flog warrior's back; make blood come. Dat bad enough;
worse to put finger on ole sore, and make 'e pain, and 'e
shame, come back ag'in.”
“Perhaps it would have been more generous, Nick, to
have said nothing about it; but, you see how I am situated;
an enemy without, my men deserting, a bad look-out, and
one finding his way into my very court-yard, and I ignorant
of the means.”
“Nick tell cap'in all about means. If red-men outside,
shoot 'em; if garrison run away, flog garrison; if don't
know, I'arn; but, don't flog back, ag'in, on ole sore!”
“Well, well, say no more about it, Nick. Here is a dollar
to keep you in rum, and we will talk of other matters.”
Nick heeded not the money, though it was held before his
eyes, some little time, to tempt him. Perceiving that the
Tuscarora was now acting as a warrior and a chief, which
Nick would do, and do well, on occasion, the captain pocketed
the offering, and regulated his own course accordingly.
“At all events, I have a right to insist on knowing, first,
by what means you entered the palisades; and, second,
what business has brought you here, at night, and so suddenly.”
“Ask Nick, cap'in, all he right to ask; but, don't touch
ole flog. How I cross palisade? Where your sentinel to
stop Injin? One at gate; well, none all round, t'other place.
Get in, up here, down dere, over yonder. Ten, twenty,
t'ree spot — s'pose him tree? climb him. S'pose him palisade?—climb
when Nick get over t'other end! Come in court, too, when
he want. Half gate half no gate. So easy, 'shamed to brag
of. Cap'in once Nick's friend — went on same war-path —
dat in ole time. Both warrior; both went ag'in French
garrison. Well; who crept in, close by cannon, open gate,
let pale-men in. Great Tuscarora do dat; no flog, den —
no talk of ole sore, dat night!”
“This is all true enough, Wyandotté”—This was Nick's
loftiest appellation; and a grim, but faint smile crossed his
visage, as he heard it, again, in the mouth of one who had
known him when its sound carried terror to the hearts of
his enemies—“This is all true, Wyandotté, and I have ever
given you credit for it. On that occasion you were bold as
the lion, and as cunning as a fox—you were much honoured
for that exploit.”
“No ole sore in dat, um?” cried Nick, in a way so startling
as to sicken Mrs. Willoughby to the heart. “No call
Nick dog, dat night. He all warrior, den — all face; no
back.”
“I have said you were honoured for your conduct, Nick,
and paid for it. Now, let me know what has brought you
here to-night, and whence you come.”
There was another pause. Gradually, the countenance
of the Indian became less and less fierce, until it lost its expression
of malignant resentment in one in which human
emotions of a kinder nature predominated.
“Squaw good,” he said, even gently, waving his hand
towards Mrs. Willoughby — “Got son; love him like little
baby. Nick come six, two time before, runner from her
son.”
“My son, Wyandotté!” exclaimed the mother — “Bring
you any tidings, now, from my boy?”
“No bring tidin'—too heavy; Indian don't love to carry
load—bring letter.”
The cry from the three females was now common, each
holding out her hand, with an involuntary impulse, to receive
the note. Nick drew the missive from a fold of his
garment, and placed it in the hand of Mrs. Willoughby, with
a quiet grace that a courtier might have wished to equal, in
vain.
The note was short, and had been written in pencil, on a
leaf torn from some book of coarse paper. The handwriting,
however, was at once recognised as Robert Willoughby's,
though there was no address, nor any signature. The paper
merely contained the following—
“Trust to your defences, and to nothing else. This party
has many white men in it, disguised as Indians. I am suspected,
if not known. You will be tampered with, but the
wisest course is to be firm. If Nick is honest, he can tell
you more; if false, this note will be shown, even though it
be delivered. Secure the inner gates, and depend more on
the house itself, than on the palisades. Fear nothing for
me—my life can be in no danger.”
This note was read by each, in succession, Maud turning
aside to conceal the tears that fell fast on the paper, as she perused
it. She read it last, and was enabled to retain it; and
precious to her heart was the boon, at such a moment, when
nearly every sensation of her being centred in intense feeling
in behalf of the captive.
“We are told to inquire the particulars of you, Nick,”
observed the captain; “I hope you will tell us nothing but
truth. A lie is so unworthy a warrior's mouth!”
“Nick didn't lie 'bout beaver dam! Cap'in no find him
good, as Indian say?”
“In that you dealt honestly, and I give you credit for it.
Has any one seen this letter but ourselves, yourself, and the
person who wrote it?”
“What for ask? If Nick say no, cap'in t'ink he lie.
Even fox tell trut' some time; why not Injin? Nick say
NO.”
“Where did you leave my son, and when? — Where is
the party of red-skins at this moment?”
“All pale-face in hurry! Ask ten, one, four question,
altogeder. Well; answer him so. Down here, at mill;
down dere, at mill; half an hour, six, two, ten o'clock.”
“I understand you to say that major Willoughby was at
the mill when you saw him last, and that this was only half
an hour since?”
The Tuscarora nodded his head in assent, but made no
other reply. Even as he did this, his keen eyes rolled over
the pallid faces of the females in a way to awaken the captain's
partook more of the military severity of his ancient habits
than of the gentler manner he had been accustomed to use
of late years.
“You know me, Nick,” he said sternly, “and ought to
dread my displeasure.”
“What cap'in mean, now?” demanded the Indian,
quietly.
“That the same whip is in this fort that I always kept in
the other, in which you knew me to dwell; nor have I forgotten
how to use it.”
The Tuscarora gazed at the captain with a very puzzling
expression, though, in the main, his countenance appeared
to be ironical rather than fierce.
“What for, talk of whip, now?” he said. “Even Yengeese
gen'ral hide whip, when he see enemy. Soldier can't
fight when back sore. When battle near, den all good
friend; when battle over, den flog, flog, flog. Why talk
so?—Cap'in nebber strike Wyandotté.”
“Your memory must be short, to say this! I thought an
Indian kept a better record of what passed.”
“No man dare strike Wyandotté!” exclaimed the Indian,
with energy. “No man — pale-face or red-skin, can
give blow on back of Wyandotté, and see sun set!”
“Well — well — Nick; we will not dispute on this point,
but let bye-gones be bye-gones. What has happened, has
happened, and I hope will never occur again.”
“Dat happen to Nick — Sassy Nick — poor, drunken
Nick — to Wyandotté, nebber!”
“I believe I begin to understand you, now, Tuscarora,
and am glad I have a chief and a warrior in my house, instead
of a poor miserable outcast. Shall I have the pleasure
of filling you a glass in honour of our old campaigns?”
“Nick alway dry—Wyandotté know no thirst. Nick,
beggar—ask for rum—pray for rum—t'ink of rum, talk of
rum, laugh for rum, cry for rum. Wyandotté don't know
rum, when he see him. Wyandotté beg not'in'; no, not his
scalp.”
“All this sounds well, and I am both willing and glad,
chief, to receive you in the character in which you give me
to understand you have now come. A warrior of Wyandotté's
his mouth, and I shall hear nothing but truth. Tell me,
then, all you know about this party at the mill; what has
brought it here, how you came to meet my son, and what
will be the next step of his captors. Answer the questions
in the order in which I put them.”
“Wyandotté not newspaper to tell ebbery t'ing at once.
Let cap'in talk like one chief speaking to anoder.”
“Then, tell me first, what you know of this party at the
mill. Are there many pale-faces in it?”
“Put 'em in the river,” answered the Indian, sententiously;
“water tell the trut'.”
“You think that there are many among them that would
wash white?”
“Wyandotté know so. When did red warriors ever travel
on their path like hogs in drove? One red-man there, as
Great Spirit make him; by his side two red-men as paint
make 'em. This soon told on trail.”
“You struck their trail, then, and joined their company,
in that manner?”
Another nod indicated the assent of the Indian. Perceiving
that the Tuscarora did not intend to speak, the captain continued
his interrogatories.
“And how did the trail betray this secret, chief?” he
asked.
“Toe turn out—step too short—trail too broad—trail too
plain—march too short.”
“You must have followed them some distance, Wyandotté,
to learn all this?”
“Follow from Mohawk — join 'em at mill. Tuscarora
don't like too much travel with Mohawk.”
“But, according to your account, there cannot be a great
many red-skins in the party, if the white men so much out-number
them.”
Nick, now, raised his right hand, showing all the fingers
and the thumb, at each exhibition, four several times. Then
he raised it once, showing only the fore-finger and thumb.
“This makes twenty-two, Nick — Do you include yourself
in the number?”
“Wyandotté, a Tuscarora—he count Mohawks.”
“True—Are there any other red-men among them?”
“Oneida, so”—holding up four fingers only. After which
he held up a single finger, adding—“Onondaga, so.”
“Twenty-two Mohawks, four Oneidas, and a single Onondaga,
make twenty-seven in all. To these, how many whites
am I to add?—You counted them, also?”
The Indian now showed both hands, with all the fingers
extended, repeating the gestures four times; then he showed
one hand entire, and two fingers on the other.
“Forty-seven. Add these to the red-skins, and we get
seventy-four for the total. I had supposed them rather
stronger than this, Wyandotté?”
“No stronger — no weaker — just so. Good many ole
womans, too, among pale-faces.”
“Old women! — You are not speaking literally, Nick?
All that I have seen appear to be men.”
“Got beard; but ole woman, too. Talk—talk—talk;—
do not'in'. Dat what Injin call ole woman. Party, poor
party; cap'in beat 'em, if he fight like ole time.”
“Well, this is encouraging, Wilhelmina, and Nick seems
to be dealing fairly with us.”
“Now, inquire more about Robert, Hugh”—said the wife,
in whose maternal heart her children were always uppermost.
“You hear, Nick; my wife is desirous of learning something
about her son, next.”
During the preceding dialogue, there had been something
equivocal in the expression of the Indian's face. Every
word he uttered about the party, its numbers, and his own
manner of falling in with it, was true, and his countenance
indicated that he was dealing fairly. Still, the captain fancied
that he could detect a covert fierceness in his eye and
air, and he felt uneasiness even while he yielded him credence.
As soon as Mrs. Willoughby, however, interposed,
the gleam of ferocity that passed so naturally and readily
athwart the swarthy features of the savage, melted into a
look of gentleness, and there were moments when it might
be almost termed softness.
“Good to have moder”—said Nick, kindly. “Wyandotté
got no squaw—wife dead, moder dead, sister dead—all gone
to land of spirits—by'm bye, chief follow. No one throw
stone on his grave! Been on death-path long ago, but
medicine, and get well.' Squaw made to do good. Chief
alway like 'e squaw, when his mind not wild with war.”
“And your mind, Wyandotté, is not wild with war, now,”
answered Mrs. Willoughby, earnestly. “You will help a
mother, then, to get her son out of the hands of merciless
enemies?”
“Why you t'ink merciless? Because pale-face dress like
Injin, and try to cheat?”
“That may be one reason; but I fear there are many
others. Tell me, Wyandotté, how came you to discover
that Robert was a prisoner, and by what means did he contrive
to give you his letter?”
The Indian assumed a look of pride, a little blended with
hauteur; for he felt that he was manifesting the superiority
of a red-man over the pale-face, as he related the means
through which he had made his discoveries.
“Read book on ground,” Nick answered gravely. “Two
book alway open before chief; one in sky, t'other on ground.
Book in sky, tell weather — snow, rain, wind, thunder,
lightning, war — book on ground, tell what happen.”
“And what had this book on the ground to do with my
son, Wyandotté?”
“Tell all about him. Major's trail first seen at mill. No
moccasin—much boot. Soldier boot like letter—say great
deal, in few word. First t'ink it cap'in; but it too short.
Den know it Major.”
“This sounds very well, Nick,” interrupted the captain,
“though you will excuse me if I say it is going a little too
far. It seems impossible that you should know that the
print of the foot was that of my son. How could you be
certain of this?”
“How could, eh? Who follow trail from house, here, to
Hudson river? T'ink Nick blind, and can't see? Tuscarora
read his book well as pale-face read bible.” Here Nick
looked round him a moment, raised his fore-finger, dropped
his voice, and added earnestly—“see him at Bunker Hill—
know him among ten, six, two t'ousand warrior. Know dat
foot, if meet him in Happy Hunting Ground.”
“And why my son's foot, in particular? The boot is often
changed, can never be exactly like its predecessor, and one
impossible. This account of the boot, Nick, makes me
distrust your whole story.”
“What distrust?” demanded the Indian like lightning.
“It means doubt, uncertainty—distrust.”
“Don't believe, ha?”
“Yes, that is it, substantially. Don't more than half believe,
perhaps, would be nearer to the mark.”
“Why, ole soldier alway distrust; squaw nebber? Ask
moder—ha!—you t'ink Nick don't know son's trail—handsome
trail, like young chief's?”
“I can readily believe Nick might recognise Bob's trail,
Hugh”—expostulated Mrs. Willoughby. “He has a foot in
a thousand—you may remember how every one was accustomed
to speak of his beautiful foot, even when he was a
boy. As a man, I think it still more remarkable.”
“Ay, go on, Nick, in this way, and my wife will believe
all you say. There is no distrust in a mother's partiality,
certainly. You are an old courtier, and would make your
way at St. James's.”
“Major nebber tell about foot?” asked Nick, earnestly.
“I remember nothing; and had he spoken of any such
thing, I must have heard it. But, never mind the story,
now; you saw the foot-print, and knew it for my son's. Did
you ask to be admitted to his prison? or was your intercourse
secret?”
“Wyandotté too wise to act like squaw, or boy. See
him, widout look. Talk, widout speak—hear, widout ear.
Major write letter, Nick take him. All done by eye and
hand; not'in' done by tongue, or at Council Fire. Mohawk
blind like owl!”
“May I believe you, Tuscarora; or, incited by demons,
do you come to deceive me?”
“Ole warrior look two time before he go; t'ink ten time
before he say, yes. All good. Nick no affronted. Do so
himself, and t'ink it right. Cap'in may believe all Nick
say.”
“Father!” cried Maud, with simple energy, “I will answer
for the Indian's honesty. He has guided Robert so
often, and been with him in so many trying scenes, he never
he may be of infinite service.”
Even captain Willoughby, little disposed as he was to
judge Nick favourably, was struck with the gleam of manly
kindness that shot across the dark face of the Indian, as he
gazed at the glowing cheek and illuminated countenance of
the ardent and beautiful girl.
“Nick seems disposed to make a truce with you, at least,
Maud,” he said, smiling, “and I shall now know where to
look for a mediator, whenever any trouble arises between
us.”
“I have known Wyandotté, dear sir, from childhood, and
he has ever been my friend. He promised me, in particular,
to be true to Bob, and I am happy to say he has ever kept
his word.”
This was telling but half the story. Maud had made the
Indian many presents, and most especially had she attended
to his wants, when it was known he was to be the major's
guide, the year previously, on his return to Boston. Nick
had known her real father, and was present at his death.
He was consequently acquainted with her actual position in
the family of the Hutted Knoll; and, what was of far more
consequence in present emergencies, he had fathomed the
depths of her heart, in a way our heroine could hardly be
said to have done herself. Off her guard with such a being,
Maud's solicitude, however, had betrayed her, and the penetrating
Tuscarora had discerned that which had escaped the
observation of father, and mother, and sister. Had Nick
been a pale-face, of the class of those with whom he usually
associated, his discovery would have gone through the settlement,
with scoffings and exaggerations; but this forest
gentleman, for such was Wyandotté, in spite of his degradation
and numerous failings, had too much consideration
to make a woman's affections the subject of his coarseness
and merriment. The secrets of Maud would not have been
more sacred with her own brother, had such a relative
existed to become her confidant, than it was with Saucy
Nick.
“Nick gal's friend,” observed the Indian, quietly; “dat
enough; what Nick say, Nick mean. What Nick mean,
war.”
At this hint, which was too plain to be misunderstood,
captain Willoughby bade the Indian withdraw to the court,
promising to follow him, as soon as he could hold a short
conference with Joyce, who was now summoned to the
council. The subject of discussion was the manner in which
the Tuscarora had passed the stockade, and the probability
of his being true. The serjeant was disposed to distrust all
red-men, and he advised putting Nick under arrest, and to
keep him in durance, until the return of light, at least.
“I might almost say, your honour, that such are orders,
sir. The advice to soldiers carrying on war with savages,
tells us that the best course is to pay off treachery with
treachery; and treachery is a red-skin's manual exercise.
There is O'Hearn will make a capital sentinel, for the fellow
is as true as the best steel in the army. Mr. Woods' room
is empty, and it is so far out of the way that nothing will be
easier than to keep the savage snug enough. Besides, by
a little management, he might fancy we were doing him
honour all the while.”
“We will see, serjeant,” answered the captain. “It has
a bad appearance, and yet it may be the wisest thing we can
do. Let us first go the rounds, taking Nick with us for
safety, and determine afterwards.”
| CHAPTER IV. Wyandotté, or, The hutted knoll | |