 | CHAPTER X. Wyandotté, or, The hutted knoll |  |
10. CHAPTER X.
Every footfall is bolder;
'T is a skeleton's tramp,
With a skull on its shoulder!
But ho, how he steps
With a high-tossing head,
That clay-covered bone,
Going down to the dead!”
Coxe.
Nick's countenance was a fair index to his mind; nor
were his words intended to deceive. Never did Wyandotté
forget the good, or evil, that was done him. After
looking intently, a short time, at the Hut, he turned and
abruptly demanded of his companions,—
“Why come here? Like to see enemy between you
and wigwam?”
As all Nick said was uttered in a guarded tone, as if he
fully entered into the necessity of remaining concealed from
those who were in such a dangerous vicinity, it served to inspire
confidence, inducing the two soldiers to believe him
disposed to serve them.
“Am I to trust in you as a friend?” demanded the captain,
looking the Indian steadily in the eye.
“Why won't trust? Nick no hero—gone away—Nick
nebber come ag'in—Wyandotté hero—who no trust Wyandotté?
Yengeese always trust great chief.”
“I shall take you at your word, Wyandotté, and tell you
everything, hoping to make an ally of you. But, first explain
to me, why you left the Hut, last night—friends do
not desert friends.”
“Why leave wigwam?—Because wanted to. Wyandotté
come when he want; go when he want. Nick go too.—
Went to see son—come back; tell story; eh?”
“Yes, it has happened much as you say, and I am willing
to think it all occurred with the best motives. Can you
tell me anything of Joel, and the others who have left me?”
“Why tell?—Cap'in look; he see. Some chop—some
plough—some weed—some dig ditch. All like ole time.
Bury hatchet—tired of war-path—why cap'in ask?”
“I see all you tell me. You know, then, that those fellows
have made friends with the hostile party?”
“No need know—see. Look—Injin chop, pale-face look
on! Call that war?”
“I do see that which satisfies me the men in paint yonder
are not all red men.”
“No—cap'in right—tell him so at wigwam. But dat
Mohawk—dog—rascal—Nick's enemy!”
This was said with a gleam of fierceness shooting across
the swarthy face, and a menacing gesture of the hand, in
the direction of a real savage who was standing indolently
leaning against a tree, at a distance so small as to allow
those on the rock to distinguish his features. The vacant
expression of this man's countenance plainly denoted that
he was totally unconscious of the vicinity of danger. It
expressed the listless vacancy of an Indian in a state of
perfect rest—his stomach full, his body at ease, his mind
peaceful.
“I thought Nick was not here,” the captain quietly observed,
smiling on the Tuscarora a little ironically.
“Cap'in right—Nick no here. Well for dog 'tis so. Too
mean for Wyandotté to touch. What cap'in come for?
Eh! Better tell chief—get council widout lightin' fire.”
“As I see no use in concealing my plan from you, Wyandotté,”—Nick
seemed pleased whenever this name was
pronounced by others—“I shall tell it you, freely. Still,
you have more to relate to me. Why are you here?—And
how came you to discover us?”
“Follow trail—know cap'in foot—know serjeant foot—
know Mike foot—see so many foot, follow him. Leave so
many” holding up three fingers “in bushes—so many”
holding up two fingers “come here. Foot tell which come
here—Wyandotté chief—he follow chief.”
“When did you first strike, or see our trail, Tuscarora?”
“Up here—down yonder—over dere.” Captain Willoughby
understood this to mean, that the Indian had crossed
the trail, or seen it in several places. “Plenty trail; plenty
foot to tell all about it. Wyandotté see foot of friend—
why he don't follow, eh?”
“I hope this is all so, old warrior, and that you will prove
yourself a friend indeed. We are out in the hope of liberating
my son, and we came here to see what our enemies
are about.”
The Tuscarora's eyes were like two inquisitors, as he
listened; but he seemed satisfied that the truth was told him.
Assuming an air of interest, he inquired if the captain knew
where the major was confined. A few words explained
everything, and the parties soon understood each other.
“Cap'in right,” observed Nick. “Son in cupboard still;
but plenty warrior near, to keep eye on him.”
“You know his position, Wyandotté, and can aid us
materially, if you will. What say you, chief; will you
take service, once more, under your old commander?”
“Who he sarve—King George—Congress—eh?”
“Neither. I am neutral, Tuscarora, in the present quarrel.
I only defend myself, and the rights which the laws
assure to me, let whichever party govern, that may.”
“Dat bad. Nebber neutral in hot war. Get rob from
bot' side. Alway be one or t' oder, cap'in.”
“You may be right, Nicholas, but a conscientious man
may think neither wholly right, nor wholly wrong. I wish
never to lift the hatchet, unless my quarrel be just.”
“Injin no understand dat. Throw hatchet at enemy —
what matter what he say—good t'ing, bad t'ing. He enemy
—dat enough. Take scalp from enemy —don't touch
friend.”
“That may do for your mode of warfare, Tuscarora, but
it will hardly do for mine. I must feel that I have right of
my side, before I am willing to take life.”
“Cap'in always talk so, eh? When he soldier, and general
say shoot ten, forty, t'ousand Frenchmen, den he say;
`stop, general — no hurry — let cap'in t'ink.' Bye-'m-by
he'll go and take scalp; eh!”
It exceeded our old soldier's self-command not to permit
the blood to rush into his face, at this home-thrust; for he
felt the cunning of the Indian had involved him in a seeming
contradiction.
“That was when I was in the army, Wyandotté,” he
answered, notwithstanding his confusion, “when my first,
and highest duty, was to obey the orders of my superiors.
Then I acted as a soldier; now, I hope to act as a man.”
“Well, Indian chief alway in army. Always high duty,
and obey superior — obey Manitou, and take scalp from
enemy. War-path alway open, when enemy at t' other
end.”
“This is no place to discuss such questions, chief; nor
have we the time. Do you go with us?”
Nick nodded an assent, and signed for the other to
quit the rocks. The captain hesitated a moment, during
which he stood intently studying the scene in the clearing.
“What say you, Tuscarora; the serjeant has proposed
assaulting that breast-work?”
“No good, cap'in. You fire, halloo, rush on—well, kill
four, six, two — rest run away. Injin down at mill hear
rifle; follow smoke—where major, den? Get major, first—
t'ink about enemy afterwards.
As Nick said this, he repeated the gesture to descend;
and he was obeyed in silence. The captain now led the
way back to his party; and soon rejoined it. All were glad
to see Nick, for he was known to have a sure rifle; to be
the woods, that frequently amounted to a species of intuition.
“Who lead, cap'in or Injin?” asked the Tuscarora, in
his sententious manner.
“Och, Nick, ye're a cr'ature!” muttered Mike. “Divil
bur-r-rn me, Jamie, but I t'inks the fallie would crass the
very three-tops, rather than miss the majjor's habitation.”
“Not a syllable must be uttered,” said the captain, raising
a hand in remonstrance. “I will lead, and Wyandotté will
march by my side, and give me his council, in whispers.
Joyce will bring up the rear. Blodget, you will keep a sharp
look-out to the left, while Jamie will do the same to the
right. As we approach the mills, stragglers may be met in
the woods, and our march must be conducted with the
greatest caution. Now follow, and be silent.”
The captain and Nick led, and the whole party followed,
observing the silence which had been enjoined on them.
The usual manner of marching on a war-path, in the woods,
was for the men to follow each other singly; an order that
has obtained the name of `Indian file,' the object being to
diminish the trail, and conceal the force of the expedition,
by each man treading in his leader's footsteps. On the
present occasion, however, the captain induced Nick to
walk at his side, feeling an uneasiness on the subject of the
Tuscarora's fidelity that he could not entirely conquer. The
pretext given was very different, as the reader will suppose.
By seeing the print of a moccasin in company with that of
a boot, any straggler that crossed the trail might be led to
suppose it had been left by the passage of a party from the
clearing or the mill. Nick quietly assented to this reasoning,
and fell in by the side of the captain without remonstrance.
Vigilant eyes were kept on all sides of the line of march,
though it was hoped and believed that the adventurers had
struck upon a route too far west to be exposed to interruption.
A quarter of a mile nearer to the flats might have
brought them within the range of stragglers; but, following
the summit of the ridge, there was a certain security in the
indolence which would be apt to prevent mere idlers from
sauntering up an ascent. At all events, no interruption
occurred, the party reaching in safety the rocks that were
the falls—the sign that they had gone far enough to the
south. At this period, the precipice was nearly lost in the
rising of the lower land, but its margin was sufficiently distinct
to form a good mask.
Descending to the plateau beneath, the captain and Nick
now inclined to the east, the intention being to come in upon
the mills from the rear. As the buildings lay in the ravine,
this could only be done by making a rapid descent immediately
in their vicinity; a formation of the ground that
rendered the march, until within pistol-shot of its termination,
reasonably secure. Nick also assured his companions
that he had several times traversed this very plateau, and
that he had met no signs of footsteps on it; from which he
inferred that the invaders had not taken the trouble to
ascend the rugged cliffs that bounded the western side of
the glen.
The approach to the summit of the cliff was made with
caution, though the left flank of the adventurers was well
protected by the abrupt descent they had already made
from the terrace above. This left little more than the right
flank and the front to be watched, the falling away of the
land forming, also, a species of cover for the rear. It is
not surprising, then, that the verge of the ravine or glen
was attained, and no discovery was made. The spot being
favourable, the captain immediately led down a winding
path, that was densely fringed with bushes, towards the
level of the buildings.
The glen of the mills was very narrow; so much so, as
barely to leave sites for the buildings themselves, and three
or four cabins for the workmen. The mills were placed
in advance, as near as possible to the course of the water;
while the habitations of the workmen were perched on
shelves of the rocks, or such level bits of bottom-land as
offered. Owing to this last circumstance, the house of
Daniel the miller, or that in which it was supposed the
major was still confined, stood by itself, and fortunately, at
the very foot of the path by which the adventurers were
descending. All this was favourable, and had been taken
into the account as a material advantage, by Captain Willoughby
sortie.
When the chimney of the cabin was visible over the
bushes, Captain Willoughby halted his party, and repeated
his instruction to Joyce, in a voice very little raised above
a whisper. The serjeant was ordered to remain in his present
position, until he received a signal to advance. As for
the captain, himself, he intended to descend as near as
might be to the buttery of the cabin, and reconnoitre, before
he gave the final order. This buttery was in a lean-to,
as a small addition to the original building was called in the
parlance of the country; and, the object being shade and
coolness, on account of the milk with which it was usually
well stored at this season of the year, it projected back to
the very cliff, where it was half hid in bushes and young
trees. It had but a single small window, that was barred
with wood to keep out cats, and such wild vermin as affected
milk, nor was it either lathed or plastered; these two last
being luxuries not often known in the log tenements of the
frontier. Still it was of solid logs, chinked in with mortar,
and made a very effectual prison, with the door properly
guarded; the captive being deprived of edged tools. All
this was also known to the father, when he set forth to effect
the liberation of his son, and, like the positions of the buildings
themselves, had been well weighed in his estimate of
the probabilities and chances.
As soon as his orders were given, Captain Willoughby
proceeded down the path, accompanied only by Nick. He
had announced his intention to send the Tuscarora ahead
to reconnoitre, then to force himself among the bushes
between the lean-to and the rocks, and there to open a communication
with the major through the chinks of the logs.
After receiving Nick's intelligence, his plan was to be governed
by circumstances, and to act accordingly.
“God bless you, Joyce,” said the captain, squeezing the
serjeant's hand as he was on the point of descending. “We
are on ticklish service, and require all our wits about us.
If anything happen to me, remember that my wife and
daughter will mainly depend on you for protection.”
“I shall consider that as your honour's orders, sir, and
no more need be said to me, Captain Willoughby.”
The captain smiled on his old follower, and Joyce thought
that never had he seen the fine manly face of his superior
beam with a calmer, or sweeter expression, than it did as
he returned his own pressure of the hand. The two
adventurers were both careful, and their descent was
noiseless. The men above listened, in breathless silence,
but the stealthy approach of the cat upon the bird could not
have been more still, than that of these two experienced
warriors.
The place where Joyce was left with the men, might
have been fifty feet above the roof of the cabin, and almost
perpendicularly over the narrow vacancy that was known
to exist between the rocks and the lean-to. Still the bushes
and trees were so thick as to prevent the smallest glimpse
at objects below, had the shape of the cliff allowed it, while
they even intercepted sounds. Joyce fancied, nevertheless,
that he heard the rustling bushes, as the captain forced his
way into the narrow space he was to occupy, and he augured
well of the fact, since it proved that no opposition had
been encountered. Half an hour of forest silence followed,
that was only interrupted by the tumbling of the waters
over the natural dam. At the end of that weary period, a
shout was heard in front of the mills, and the party raised
their pieces, in a vague apprehension that some discovery
had been made that was about to bring on a crisis. Nothing
further occurred, however, to confirm this impression,
and an occasional burst of laughter, that evidently came
from white men, rather served to allay the apprehension.
Another half-hour passed, during which no interruption was
heard. By this time Joyce became uneasy, a state of things
having arrived for which no provision had been made in his
instructions. He was about to leave his command under
the charge of Jamie, and descend himself to reconnoitre,
when a footstep was heard coming up the path. Nothing
but the deep attention, and breathless stillness of the men
could have rendered the sound of a tread so nearly noiseless,
audible; but heard it was, at a moment when every
sense was wrought up to its greatest powers. Rifles were
lowered, in readiness to receive assailants, but each was
raised again, as Nick came slowly into view. The Tuscarora
was calm in manner, as if no incident had occurred to
him, like those of a man who searched for an absent person.
“Where cap'in? — Where major?” Nick asked, as soon
as his glance had taken in the faces of all present.
“We must ask that of you, Nick,” returned Joyce. “We
have not seen the captain, nor had any orders from him,
since he left us.”
This answer seemed to cause the Indian more surprise
than it was usual for him to betray, and he pondered a moment
in obvious uneasiness.
“Can't stay here, alway,” he muttered. “Best go see.
Bye'm-by trouble come; then, too late.”
The serjeant was greatly averse to moving without orders.
He had his instructions how to act in every probable
contingency, but none that covered the case of absolute inaction
on the part of those below. Nevertheless, twice the
time necessary to bring things to issue had gone by, and
neither signal, shot, nor alarm had reached his ears.
“Do you know anything of the major, Nick?” the serjeant
demanded, determined to examine the case thoroughly
ere he came to a decision.
“Major dere — see him at door — plenty sentinel. All
good — where cap'in?”
“Where did you leave him? — You can give the last account
of him.”
“Go in behind cupboard—under rock—plenty bushes—
all right—son dere.”
“This must be looked to—perhaps his honour has fallen
into a fit—such things sometimes happen—and a man who
is fighting for his own child, doesn't feel, Jamie, all the same
as one who fights on a general principle, as it might be.”
“Na—ye're right, sairjeant J'yce, and ye'll be doing the
kind and prudent act, to gang doon yersal', and investigate
the trainsaction with yer ain een.”
This Joyce determined to do, directing Nick to accompany
him, as a guide. The Indian seemed glad to comply,
and there was no delay in proceeding. It required but a
minute to reach the narrow passage between the cliff and
the lean-to. The bushes were carefully shoved aside, and
Joyce entered. He soon caught a glimpse of the hunting-shirt,
and then he was about to withdraw, believing that he
commander removed all scruples; for he observed that he
was seated on a projection of the rocks, with his body bowed
forward, apparently leaning on the logs of the building.
This seemed to corroborate the thought about a fit, and the
serjeant pressed eagerly forward to ascertain the truth.
Joyce touched his commander's arm, but no sign of consciousness
came from the latter. He then raised his body
upright, placing the back in a reclining attitude against the
rocks, and started back himself when he caught a glimpse
of the death-like hue of the face. At first, the notion of the
fit was strong with the serjeant; but, in changing his own
position, he caught a glimpse of a little pool of blood, which
at once announced that violence had been used.
Although the serjeant was a man of great steadiness of
nerves, and unchangeable method, he fairly trembled as he
ascertained the serious condition of his old and well-beloved
commander. Notwithstanding, he was too much of a soldier
to neglect anything that circumstances required. On
examination, he discovered a deep and fatal wound between
two of the ribs, which had evidently been inflicted with a
common knife. The blow had passed into the heart, and
Captain Willoughby was, out of all question, dead! He
had breathed his last, within six feet of his own gallant son,
who, ignorant of all that passed, was little dreaming of the
proximity of one so dear to him, as well as of his dire
condition.
Joyce was a man of powerful frame, and, at that moment,
he felt he was master of a giant's strength. First assuring
himself of the fact that the wounded man had certainly
ceased to breathe, he brought the arms over his own shoulders,
raised the body on his back, and walked from the
place, with less attention to caution than on entering, but
with sufficient care to prevent exposure. Nick stood watching
his movements with a wondering look, and as soon as
there was room, he aided in supporting the corpse.
In this manner the two went up the path, bearing their
senseless burden. A gesture directed the party with Jamie
to precede the two who had been below, and the serjeant did
not pause even to breathe, until he had fairly reached the
summit of the cliff; then he halted in a place removed from the
on the ground, and Joyce renewed his examination
with greater ease and accuracy, until perfectly satisfied that
the captain must have ceased to breathe, nearly an hour.
This was a sad and fearful blow to the whole party. No
one, at such a moment, thought of inquiring into the manner
in which their excellent master had received his death-blow;
but every thought was bent either on the extent of the
calamity, or on the means of getting back to the Hut.
Joyce was the soul of the party. His rugged face assumed
a stern, commanding expression; but every sign of weakness
had disappeared. He gave his orders promptly, and
the men even started when he spoke, so bent on obtaining
obedience did he appear to be.
The rifles were converted into a bier, the body was placed
upon it, and the four men then raised the burthen, and began
to retrace their footsteps, in melancholy silence. Nick led
the way, pointing out the difficulties of the path, with a
sedulousness of attention, and a gentleness of manner, that
none present had ever before witnessed in the Tuscarora.
He even appeared to have become woman, to use one of his
own peculiar expressions.
No one speaking, and all the men working with good
will, the retreat, notwithstanding the burthen with which it
was encumbered, was made with a rapidity greatly exceeding
the advance. Nick led the way with an unerring eye,
even selecting better ground than that which the white men
had been able to find on their march. He had often traversed
all the hills, in the character of a hunter, and to him
the avenues of the forest were as familiar as the streets of
his native town become to the burgher. He made no offer
to become one of the bearers; this would have been opposed
to his habits; but, in all else, the Indian manifested gentleness
and solicitude. His apprehension seemed to be, and
so he expressed it, that the Mohawks might get the scalp of
the dead man; a disgrace that he seemed as solicitous to
avoid as Joyce himself; the serjeant, however, keeping in
view the feelings of the survivors, rather than any notions
of military pride.
Notwithstanding the stern resolution that prevailed among
the men, that return march was long and weary. The distance,
inequalities and obstacles of a forest to oppose them. Perseverance
and strength, however, overcame all difficulties;
and, at the end of two hours, the party approached the point
where it became necessary to enter the bed of the rivulet,
or expose their sad procession by marching in open view of
any who might be straggling in the rear of the Hut. A
species of desperate determination had influenced the men
in their return march, rendering them reckless of discovery,
or its consequences; a circumstance that had greatly
favoured their object; the adventurous and bold frequently
encountering fewer difficulties, in the affairs of war, than
the cautious and timid. But an embarrassment now presented
itself that was far more difficult to encounter than
any which proceeded from personal risks. The loving
family of the deceased was to be met; a wife and daughters
apprised of the fearful loss that, in the providence of God,
had suddenly alighted on their house.
“Lower the body, men, and come to a halt,” said Joyce,
using the manner of authority, though his voice trembled;
“we must consult together, as to our next step.”
There was a brief and decent pause, while the party
placed the lifeless body on the grass, face uppermost, with
the limbs laid in order, and everything about it, disposed of
in a seemliness that betokened profound respect for the
senseless clay, even after the noble spirit had departed.
Mike alone could not resist his strong native propensity to
talk. The honest fellow raised a hand of his late master,
and, kissing it with strong affection, soliloquized as follows,
in a tone that was more rebuked by feeling, than any apprehension
of consequences.
“Little need had ye of a praist, and extreme unction,” he
said. “The likes of yerself always kapes a clane breast;
and the knife that went into yer heart found nothing that ye
need have been ashamed of! Sorrow come over me, but
yer lass is as great a one to meself, as if I had tidings of the
sinking of ould Ireland into the salt say, itself; a thing that
niver can happen, and niver will happen; no, not even at
the last day; as all agree the wor-r-ld is to be burned and
not drowned. And who'll there be to tell this same to the
Missus, and Miss Beuley, and phratty Miss Maud, and the
Michael O'Hearn, who has too much sorrow of his own, to
be running about, and d'aling it out to other people. Sarjeant,
that will be yer own jewty, and I pities the man that
has to perform it.”
“No man will see me shrink from a duty, O'Hearn,”
said Joyce, stiffly, while with the utmost difficulty he kept
the tears from breaking out of a fountain that had not
opened, in this way, for twenty years. “It may bear hard
on my feelings—I do not say it will not—but duty is duty,
and it must be done. Corporal Allen, you see the state of
things; the commanding officer is among the casualties,
and nothing would be simpler than our course, were it not
for Madam Willoughby — God bless her, and have her in
His holy keeping—and the young ladies. It is proper to
deliberate a little about them. To you then, as an elderly
and experienced man, I first apply for an opinion.”
“Sorrow's an unwelcome guest, whether it comes expected,
or without any previous knowledge. The hairts o'
the widow and fairtherless must be stricken, and it's little
that a' our consolations and expairiments will prevail ag'in
the feelin's o' natur'. Pheeloosophy and religion tall us that
the body's no mair than a clod o' the valley when the
speerit has fled; but the hairt is unapt to listen to wisdom
while the grief is fraish, and of the severity of an unlooked-for
sairtainty. I see little good, therefore, in doing mair
than just sending in a messenger to clear the way a little
for the arrival of truth, in the form o' death, itsal'.”
“I have been thinking of this — will you take the office,
Jamie, as a man of years and discretion?”
“Na—na—ye'll be doing far better by sending a younger
man. Age has weakened my memory, and I'll be overlooking
some o' the saircumstances in a manner that will be
unseemly for the occasion. Here is Blodget, a youth of
ready wit, and limber tongue.”
“I wouldn't do it, mason, to be the owner of ten such
properties as this!” exclaimed the young Rhode Islander,
actually recoiling a step, as if he retreated before a dreaded
foe.
“Well, sairjeant, ye've Michael here, who belangs to a
kirk that has so little seempathy with protestantism as to
and Michael, by taking a religious view o' the maither, might
bring his hairt into such a condition of insensibility as wad
give him little to do but to tell what has happened, leaving
God, in his ain maircy, to temper the wind to the shorn
lamb.”
“You hear, O'Hearn?” said the serjeant, stiffly—“Everybody
seems to expect that you will do this duty.”
“Jewty!—D'ye call it a jewty for a man in my situation
to break the hearts of Missus, and Miss Beuly, and phratty
Miss Maud, and the babby? for babbies has hearts as well
as the stoutest man as is going. Divil bur-r-n me, then, if
ye gets out of my mout' so much as a hint that the captain's
dead and gone from us, for ever and ever, amen! Ye may
send me in, for ye're corporals, and serjeants, and the likes
of yees, and I'll obey as a souldier, seein' that he would
have wished as much himself, had the breat' staid in his
body, which it has not, on account of its l'aving his sowl on
'arth, and departing with his corporeal part for the mansions
of happiness, the Blessed Mary have mercy on him, whether
here or there — but the captain was not the man to wish a
fait'ful follower to afflict his own wife; and so I'll have
not'in' to do with such a message, at all at all.”
“Nick go” — said the Indian, calmly — “Used to carry
message — carry him for cap'in, once more.”
“Well, Nick, you may do it certainly, if so disposed,”
answered Joyce, who would have accepted the services of a
Chinese rather than undertake the office in person. “You
will remember and speak to the ladies gently, and not break
the news too suddenly.”
“Yes—squaw soft heart—Nick know—had moder—had
wife, once—had darter.”
“Very well; this will be an advantage, men, as Nick is
the only married man among us; and married men should
best understand dealing with females.”
Joyce then held a private communication with the Tuscarora,
that lasted some five or six minutes, when the last
leaped nimbly into the bed of the stream, and was soon con
cealed by the bushes of one of its reaches.
| CHAPTER X. Wyandotté, or, The hutted knoll | |