University of Virginia Library

14. CHAPTER XIV.

Sands.

Maud had little leisure for reflection. The yells and
shrieks were followed by the cries of combatants, and the
crack of the rifle. Nick hurried her along at a rate so rapid
that she had not breath to question or remonstrate, until she
found herself at the door of a small store-room, in which
her mother was accustomed to keep articles of domestic
economy that required but little space. Into this room Nick
thrust her, and then she heard the key turn on her egress.
For a single moment, Wyandotté stood hesitating whether
he should endeavour to get Mrs. Willoughby and her other
daughter into the same place of security; then, judging of
the futility of the attempt, by the approach of the sounds
within, among which he heard the full, manly voice of Robert
Willoughby, calling on the garrison to be firm, he raised
an answering yell to those of the Mohawks, the war-whoop
of his tribe, and plunged into the fray with the desperation
of one who ran a muck, and with the delight of a demon.

In order to understand the cause of this sudden change,
it will be necessary to return a little, in the order of time.
While Willoughby was with his mother and sisters, Mike
had charge of the gate. The rest of the garrison was either

at the loops, or was stationed on the roofs. As the darkness
increased, Joel mustered sufficient courage to crawl through
the hole, and actually reached the gate. Without him, it
was found impossible to spring his mine, and he had been
prevailed on to risk this much, on condition it should not
be asked of him to do such violence to his feelings as to
enter the court of a house in which he had seen so many
happy days.

The arrangement, by which this traitor intended to throw
a family upon the tender mercies of savages, was exceedingly
simple. It will be remembered that only one leaf of
the inner gate was hung, the other being put in its place,
where it was sustained by a prop. This prop consisted of
a single piece of timber, of which one end rested on the
ground, and the other on the centre of the gate; the last being
effectually prevented from slipping by pins of wood,
driven into the massive wood-work of the gate, above its
end. The lower end of the prop rested against a fragment
of rock that nature had placed at this particular spot. As
the work had been set up in a hurry, it was found necessary
to place wedges between the lower end of the prop and the
rock, in order to force the leaf properly into its groove, without
which it might have been canted to one side, and of
course easily overturned by the exercise of sufficient force
from without.

To all this arrangement, Joel had been a party, and he
knew, as a matter of course, its strong and its weak points.
Seizing a favourable moment, he had loosened the wedges,
leaving them in their places, however, but using the precaution
to fasten a bit of small but strong cord to the most
material one of the three, which cord he buried in the dirt,
and led half round a stick driven into the earth, quite near
the wall, and thence through a hole made by one of the
hinges, to the outer side of the leaf. The whole had been
done with so much care as to escape the vigilance of casual
observers, and expressly that the overseer might assist his
friends in entering the place, after he himself had provided
for his own safety by flight. The circumstance that no one
trod on the side of the gateway where the unhung leaf stood,
prevented the half-buried cord from being disturbed by any
casual footstep.

As soon as Joel reached the wall of the Hut, his first care
was to ascertain if he were safe from missiles from the loops.
Assured of this fact, he stole round to the gate, and had a
consultation with the Mohawk chief, on the subject of springing
the mine. The cord was found in its place; and, hauling
on it gently, Joel was soon certain that he had removed
the wedge, and that force might speedily throw down the
unhung leaf. Still, he proceeded with caution. Applying
the point of a lever to the bottom of the leaf, he hove it back
sufficiently to be sure it would pass inside of its fellow; and
then he announced to the grave warrior, who had watched
the whole proceeding, that the time was come to lend his
aid.

There were a dozen reckless whites, in the cluster of savages
collected at the gate; and enough of these were placed
at handspikes to effect the intended dislodgement. The
plan was this: while poles were set against the upper portion
of the leaf, to force it within the line of the suspended
part, handspikes and crowbars, of which a sufficiency had
been provided by Joel's forethought, were to be applied between
the hinge edge and the wall, to cast the whole over
to the other side.

Unluckily, Mike had been left at the gate as the sentinel.
A more unfortunate selection could not have been made;
the true-hearted fellow having so much self-confidence, and
so little forethought, as to believe the gates impregnable.
He had lighted a pipe, and was smoking as tranquilly as he
had ever done before, in his daily indulgences of this character,
when the unhung leaf came tumbling in upon the
side where he sat; nothing saving his head but the upper
edge's lodging against the wall. At the same moment, a
dozen Indians leaped through the opening, and sprang into
the court, raising the yells already described. Mike followed,
armed with his shillelah, for his musket was abandoned
in the surprise, and he began to lay about him with an
earnestness that in nowise lessened the clamour. This was
the moment when Joyce, nobly sustained by Blodget and
Jamie Allen, poured a volley into the court, from the roofs;
when the fray became general. To this point had the combat
reached, when Willoughby rushed into the open air,
followed, a few instants later, by Nick.

The scene that succeeded is not easily described. It was
a mélée in the dark, illuminated, at instants, by the flashes
of guns, and rendered horrible by shrieks, curses, groans
and whoops. Mike actually cleared the centre of the court,
where he was soon joined by Willoughby, when, together,
they made a rush at a door, and actually succeeded in gaining
their own party on the roof. It was not in nature for
the young soldier to remain here, however, while his mother,
Beulah, and, so far as he knew, Maud, lay exposed to the
savages below. Amid a shower of bullets he collected his
whole force, and was on the point of charging into the court,
when the roll of a drum without, brought everything to a
stand. Young Blodget, who had displayed the ardour of a
hero, and the coolness of a veteran throughout the short
fray, sprang down the stairs unarmed, at this sound, passed
through the astonished crowd in the court, unnoticed, and
rushed to the outer gate. He had barely time to unbar it,
when a body of troops marched through, led by a tall, manly-looking
chief, who was accompanied by one that the
young man instantly recognised, in spite of the darkness, for
Mr. Woods, in his surplice. At the next moment, the strangers
had entered, with military steadiness, into the court, to
the number of, at least, fifty, ranging themselves in order
across its area.

“In the name of Heaven, who are you?” called out Willoughby,
from a window. “Speak at once, or we fire.”

“I am Colonel Beekman, at the head of a regular force,”
was the answer, “and if, as I suspect, you are Major Willoughby,
you know you are safe. In the name of Congress,
I command all good citizens to keep the peace, or
they will meet with punishment for their contumacy.”

This announcement ended the war, Beekman and Willoughby
grasping each other's hands fervently, at the next
instant.

“Oh! Beekman!” exclaimed the last, “at what a moment
has God sent you hither! Heaven be praised! notwithstanding
all that has happened, you will find your wife
and child safe. Place sentinels at both gates; for treachery
has been at work here, and I shall ask for rigid justice.”

“Softly—softly—my good fellow,” answered Beekman,
pressing his hand. “Your own position is a little delicate,

and we must proceed with moderation. I learned, just in
time, that a party was coming hither, bent on mischief; and
obtaining the necessary authority, I hastened to the nearest
garrison, obtained a company, and commenced my march
as soon as possible. Had we not met with Mr. Woods,
travelling for the settlements in quest of succour, we might
have been too late As it was, God be praised!—I think we
have arrived in season.”

Such were the facts. The Indians had repelled the
zealous chaplain, as a madman; compelling him to take the
route toward the settlements, however; their respect for this
unfortunate class of beings, rendering them averse to his
rejoining their enemies. He could, and did impart enough
to Beekman to quicken his march, and to bring him and
his followers up to the gate at a time when a minute might
have cost the entire garrison their lives.

Anxious as he was to seek Beulah and his child, Beekman
had a soldier's duties to perform, and those he would
not neglect. The sentinels were posted, and orders issued
to light lanterns, and to make a fire in the centre of the
court, so that the actual condition of the field of battle might
be ascertained. A surgeon had accompanied Beekman's
party, and he was already at work, so far as the darkness
would allow. Many hands being employed, and combustibles
easy to be found, ere long the desired light was gleaming
on the terrible spectacle.

A dozen bodies were stretched in the court, of which,
three or four were fated never to rise again, in life. Of the
rest, no less than four had fallen with broken heads, inflicted
by O'Hearn's shillelah. Though these blows were not
fatal, they effectually put the warriors hors de combat. Of
the garrison, not one was among the slain, in this part of
the field. On a later investigation, however, it was ascertained
that the poor old Scotch mason had received a mortal
hurt, through a window, and this by the very last shot that
had been fired. On turning over the dead of the assailants,
too, it was discovered that Daniel the Miller was of the
number. A few of the Mohawks were seen, with glowing
eyes, in corners of the court, applying their own rude dressings
to their various hurts; succeeding, on the whole, in

effecting the great purpose of the healing art, about as well
as those who were committed to the lights of science.

Surprisingly few uninjured members of the assaulting
party, however, were to be found, when the lanterns appeared.
Some had slipped through the gate before the sentinels
were posted; others had found their way to the roof,
and thence, by various means to the ground; while a few
lay concealed in the buildings, until a favourable moment
offered to escape. Among all those who remained, not an
individual was found who claimed to be in any authority.
In a word, after five minutes of examination, both Beekman
and Willoughby were satisfied that there no longer existed
a force to dispute with them the mastery of the Hut.

“We have delayed too long relieving the apprehensions
of those who are very dear to us, Major Willoughby,” Beekman
at length observed. “If you will lead the way to the
parts of the buildings where your—my mother, and wife, are
to be found, I will now follow you.”

“Hold, Beekman—there yet remains a melancholy tale
to be told—nay, start not—I left our Beulah, and your boy,
in perfect health, less than a quarter of an hour since. But
my honoured, honourable, revered, beloved father has been
killed in a most extraordinary manner, and you will find his
widow and daughters weeping over his body.”

This appalling intelligence produced a halt, during which
Willoughby explained all he knew of the manner of his
father's death, which was merely the little he had been enabled
to glean from Maud. As soon as this duty was performed,
the gentlemen proceeded together to the apartment
of the mourners, each carrying a light.

Willoughby made an involuntary exclamation, when he
perceived that the door of his mother's room was open. He
had hoped Maud would have had the presence of mind to
close and lock it; but here he found it, yawning as if to invite
the entrance of enemies. The light within, too, was
extinguished, though, by the aid of the lanterns, he saw large
traces of blood in the ante-room, and the passages he was
obliged to thread. All this hastened his steps. Presently
he stood in the chamber of death.

Short as had been the struggle, the thirst for scalps had
led some of the savages to this sanctuary. The instant the

Indians had gained the court, some of the most ferocious of
their number had rushed into the building, penetrating its
recesses in a way to defile them with slaughter. The first
object that Willoughby saw was one of these ruthless warriors,
stretched on the floor, with a living Indian, bleeding at
half a dozen wounds, standing over him; the eye-balls of
the latter were glaring like the tiger's that is suddenly confronted
to a foe. An involuntary motion was made towards
the rifle he carried, by the major; but the next look told him
that the living Indian was Nick. Then it was, that he gazed
more steadily about him, and took in all the horrible truths
of that fatal chamber.

Mrs. Willoughby was seated in the chair where she had
last been seen, perfectly dead. No mark of violence was
ever found on her body, however, and there is no doubt that
her constant spirit had followed that of her husband to the
other world, in submission to the blow which had separated
them. Beulah had been shot; not, as was afterwards ascertained,
by any intentional aim, but by one of those random
bullets, of which so many had been flying through the
buildings. The missile had passed through her heart, and
she lay pressing the little Evert to her bosom, with that air
of steady and unerring affection which had marked every
act of her innocent and feeling life. The boy himself, thanks
to the tiger-like gallantry of Nick, had escaped unhurt. The
Tuscarora had seen a party of six take the direction of this
chamber, and he followed with an instinct of their intentions.
When the leader entered the room, and found three dead
bodies, he raised a yell that betokened his delight at the
prospect of gaining so many scalps; at the next instant,
while his fingers were actually entwined in the hair of Captain
Willoughby, he fell by a blow from Wyandotté. Nick
next extinguished the lamp, and then succeeded a scene,
which none of the actors, themselves, could have described.
Another Mohawk fell, and the remainder, after suffering
horribly from the keen knife of Nick, as well as from blows
received from each other, dragged themselves away, leaving
the field to the Tuscarora. The latter met the almost bewildered
gaze of the major with a smile of grim triumph,
as he pointed to the three bodies of the beloved ones, and
said—

“See — all got scalp! Deat', nothin' — scalp, ebbery
t'ing.”

We shall not attempt to describe the outbreaking of anguish
from the husband and brother. It was a moment of
wild grief, that bore down all the usual restraints of manhood,
though it was such a moment as an American frontier
residence has often witnessed. The quiet but deep-feeling
nature of Beekman received a shock that almost produced
a dissolution of his earthly being. He succeeded, however,
in raising the still warm body of Beulah from the floor, and
folding it to his heart. Happily for his reason, a flood of
tears, such as women shed, burst from his soul, rather than
from his eyes, bedewing her still sweet and placid countenance.

To say that Robert Willoughby did not feel the desolation,
which so suddenly alighted on a family that had
often been quoted for its mutual affection and happiness,
would be to do him great injustice. He even staggered under
the blow; yet his heart craved further information.
The Indian was gazing intently on the sight of Beekman's
grief, partly in wonder, but more in sympathy, when he felt
an iron pressure of his arm.

“Maud—Tuscarora”—the major rather groaned than
whispered in his ear, “know you anything of Maud?”

Nick made a gesture of assent; then motioned for the
other to follow. He led the way to the store-room, produced
the key, and throwing open the door, Maud was weeping on
Robert Willoughby's bosom in another instant. He would
not take her to the chamber of death, but urged her, by
gentle violence, to follow him to the library.

“God be praised for this mercy!” exclaimed the ardent
girl, raising her hands and streaming eyes to heaven. “I
know not, care not, who is conqueror, since you are safe!”

“Oh! Maud—beloved one—we must now be all in all to
each other. Death has stricken the others.”

This was a sudden and involuntary announcement, though
it was best it should be so under the circumstances. It was
long before Maud could hear an outline, even, of the details,
but she bore them better than Willoughby could have hoped.
The excitement had been so high, as to brace the mind to
meet any human evil. The sorrow that came afterwards,

though sweetened by so many tender recollections, and chastened
hopes, was deep and enduring.

Our picture would not have been complete, without relating
the catastrophe that befell the Hutted Knoll; but, having
discharged this painful duty, we prefer to draw a veil over
the remainder of that dreadful night. The cries of the negresses,
when they learned the death of their old and young
mistress, disturbed the silence of the place for a few minutes,
and then a profound stillness settled on the buildings, marking
them distinctly as the house of mourning. On further
inquiry, too, it was ascertained that Great Smash, after
shooting an Oneida, had been slain and scalped. Pliny the
younger, also, fell fighting like a wild beast to defend the
entrance to his mistresses' apartments.

The following day, when light had returned, a more accurate
idea was obtained of the real state of the valley.
All of the invading party, the dead and wounded excepted,
had made a rapid retreat, accompanied by most of the deserters
and their families. The name, known influence,
and actual authority of Colonel Beekman had wrought this
change; the irregular powers that had set the expedition in
motion, preferring to conceal their agency in the transaction,
rather than make any hazardous attempt to claim the
reward of patriotic service, as is so often done in revolutions,
for merciless deeds and selfish acts. There had been
no real design on the part of the whites to injure any of the
family in their persons; but, instigated by Joel, they had
fancied the occasion favourable for illustrating their own
public virtue, while they placed themselves in the way of
receiving fortune's favours. The assault that actually occurred,
was one of those uncontrollable outbreakings of
Indian ferocity, that have so often set at defiance the restraints
of discipline.

Nick was not to be found either. He had been last seen
dressing his wounds, with Indian patience, and Indian skill,
preparing to apply herbs and roots, in quest of which he
went into the forest about midnight. As he did not return,
Willoughby feared that he might be suffering alone, and
determined to have a search made, as soon as he had performed
the last sad offices for the dead.

Two days occurred, however, before this melancholy duty

was discharged. The bodies of all the savages who had
fallen were interred the morning after the assault; but that
of Jamie Allen, with those of the principal persons of the
family, were kept for the pious purposes of affection, until
the time mentioned.

The funeral was a touching sight. The captain, his wife,
and daughter, were laid, side by side, near the chapel; the
first and last of their race that ever reposed in the wilds of
America. Mr. Woods read the funeral service, summoning
all his spiritual powers to sustain him, as he discharged this
solemn office of the church. Willoughby's arm was around
the waist of Maud, who endeavoured to reward his tender
assiduities by a smile, but could not. Colonel Beekman
held little Evert in his arms, and stood over the grave with
the countenance of a resolute man stricken with grief—one
of the most touching spectacles of our nature.

“I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord,”
sounded in the stillness of that valley like a voice from
heaven, pouring out consolation on the bruised spirits of
the mourners. Maud raised her face from Willoughby's
shoulder, and lifted her blue eyes to the cloudless vault
above her, soliciting mercy, and offering resignation in the
look. The line of troops in the back-ground moved, as by
a common impulse, and then a breathless silence showed
the desire of these rude beings not to lose a syllable.

A round red spot formed on each of the cheeks of Mr.
Woods as he proceeded, and his voice gathered strength,
until its lowest intonations came clear and distinct on every
ear. Just as the bodies were about to be lowered into their
two receptacles, the captain, his wife and daughter being
laid in the same grave, Nick came with his noiseless step
near the little group of mourners. He had issued from the
forest only a few minutes before, and understanding the
intention of the ceremony, he approached the spot as fast
as weakness and wounds would allow. Even he listened
with profound attention to the chaplain, never changing his
eye from his face, unless to glance at the coffins as they lay
in their final resting-place.

“I heard a voice from Heaven, saying unto me, write,
From henceforth blessed are the dead who die in the Lord;
even so saith the Spirit, for they rest from their labours,”

continued the chaplain, his voice beginning to betray a
tremor; then the gaze of the Tuscarora became keen as the
panther's glance at his discovered victim. Tears followed,
and, for a moment, the voice was choked.

“Why you woman?” demanded Nick, fiercely. “Save
all 'e scalp!”

This strange interruption failed to produce any effect.
First Beekman yielded; Maud and Willoughby followed;
until Mr. Woods, himself, unable to resist the double assaults
of the power of sympathy and his own affection,
closed the book and wept like a child.

It required minutes for the mourners to recover their self-command.
When the latter returned, however, all knelt on
the grass, the line of soldiers included, and the closing
prayers were raised to the throne of God.

This act of devotion enabled the mourners to maintain an
appearance of greater tranquillity until the graves were filled.
The troops advanced, and fired three volleys over the captain's
grave, when all retired towards the Hut. Maud had
caught little Evert from the arms of his father, and, pressing
him to her bosom, the motherless babe seemed disposed to
slumber there. In this manner she walked away, attended
closely by the father, who now cherished his boy as an only
treasure.

Willoughby lingered the last at the grave, Nick alone
remaining near him. The Indian had been struck by the
exhibition of deep sorrow that he had witnessed, and he felt
an uneasiness that was a little unaccountable to himself. It
was one of the caprices of this strange nature of ours, that
he should feel a desire to console those whom he had so
deeply injured himself. He drew near to Robert Willoughby,
therefore, and, laying a hand on the latter's arm, drew
his look in the direction of his own red and speaking face.

“Why so sorry, major?” he said. “Warrior nebber die
but once—must die sometime.”

“There lie my father, my mother, and my only sister,
Indian—is not that enough to make the stoutest heart bend?
You knew them, too, Nick—did you ever know better?”

“Squaw good—both squaw good—Nick see no pale-face
squaw he like so much.”

“I thank you, Nick! This rude tribute to the virtues of

my mother and sister, is far more grateful to me than the
calculating and regulated condolence of the world.”

“No squaw so good as ole one—she, all heart—love every
body, but self.”

This was so characteristic of his mother, that Willoughby
was startled by the sagacity of the savage, though reflection
told him so long an acquaintance with the family must have
made a dog familiar with this beautiful trait in his mother.

“And my father, Nick!” exclaimed the major, with feeling—“my
noble, just, liberal, gallant father!—He, too, you
knew well, and must have loved.”

“No so good as squaw,” answered the Tuscarora, sententiously,
and not altogether without disgust in his manner.

“We are seldom as good as our wives, and mothers, and
sisters, Nick, else should we be angels on earth. But, allowing
for the infirmities of us men, my father was just and
good.”

“Too much flog”—answered the savage, sternly—“make
Injin's back sore.”

This extraordinary speech struck the major less, at the
time, than it did, years afterwards, when he came to reflect
on all the events and dialogues of this teeming week. Such
was also the case as to what followed.

“You are no flatterer, Tuscarora, as I have always found
in our intercourse. If my father ever punished you with
severity, you will allow me, at least, to imagine it was merited.”

“Too much flog, I say,” interrupted the savage, fiercely.
“No difference, chief or not. Touch ole sore too rough.
Good, some; bad, some. Like weather—now shine; now
storm.”

“This is no time to discuss these points, Nick. You
have fought nobly for us, and I thank you. Without your
aid, these beloved once would have been mutilated, as well
as slain; and Maud—my own blessed Maud—might now
have been sleeping at their sides.”

Nick's face was now all softness again, and he returned
the pressure of Willoughby's hand with honest fervour.
Here they separated. The major hastened to the side of
Maud, to fold her to his heart, and console her with his love.
Nick passed into the forest, returning no more to the Hut.

His path led him near the grave. On the side where lay
the body of Mrs. Willoughby, he threw a flower he had
plucked in the meadow; while he shook his finger menacingly
at the other, which hid the person of his enemy. In
this, he was true to his nature, which taught him never to
forget a favour, or forgive an injury.