University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.

—Brinley's Rescue.

Short but bloody had been the
work of that enemy whose heart is
ever shut to mercy in war. When
Ernest regained his senses, which
happened at the moment we have
chosen to close the preceeding chapter,
a scene was presented to his
vision, well calculated to make the
stoutest heart grow sick and faint.
On the ground, by his side, lay the
mangled remains of Danbury, and
another youth—who had come hither,
but an hour before, full of life,
and hope, and buoyant feelings—
now fast growing cold in the embrace
of death—their once handsome
features distorted and bloody,
and their scalps already dangling
at the girdle of some inhuman
monster of the forest. A little further
on, half hid in the shadow of
the dim light of the apartment, he
saw the form of her who had given
birth to the idol of his affections,
now lying at full length upon the
ground—her white dress frightfully
stained with the red current of life,
which had spouted from her breast—
her features pale, and, save a slight
contraction, caused by the death-spasm,
looking as calm and sweet as
if she had just sunk into a gentle
sleep. Above and around him, all
was noise and confusion. Several
females were huddling together in
one corner, as if striving to shrink
from the foe, still shrieking for aid,
and apparently not aware that the
enemy had vanished. Some were
groaning with pain, some were running
to and fro completely bewildered,
and some were shouting for silence;
but all was yet Babel-like
commotion.

Ernest felt a slight dizziness in
his head, and the blood trickling
over his face. Raising his hand to
the wound, he comprehended all at
once. The savage had struck him
with a tomahawk, which, instead
of splitting open his skull, as intended,
had glanced along the bone,
and made a frightful incision. The
blow had stunned and felled him,
and thus his life had been preserved.
Notwithstanding his wound,
he instantly sprang to his feet, as
though it were a mere scratch, and
in a voice of authority, whose tones
were distinctly audible above all
the tumult, commanded silence.
As if each acknowledged his right
to command, all at once became
still, and every eye was turned inquiringly
upon him. His features
were pale with excitement, down
which the blood was trickling in
long, red streaks, and dropping upon
and soiling his splendid uniform,
rendering him an object painful to

behold—so that many gazed upon
him with awe, not unlike what
they would have felt on beholding
one rise from the dead.

“Friends,” he said, “this is a terrible
scene, and must be avenged.
She who was so late among you,
almost a bride, has been torn away,
and is now a captive to a merciless
foe—if, in fact, the thirsty tomahawk
of her captor has not already drank
of her innocent blood. Yonder, behold
the gory corpse of her mother!
Shall these inhuman monsters go
unpunished? Shall we not start
upon her trail, swearing to rescue
her if living, if dead to avenge, or
leave our bones to whiten the soil
of the red man?”

Cries of “Yes! yes!” resounded
on all sides, while those who had
weapons grasped them tightly, and
their eyes flashed, and their features
wore expressions of the most
resolute determination.

“My poor body's devoted to the
rescue of my last and only friend—
my poor, sweet mistress,” rejoined
Ichabod, with a strong burst of emotion,
that brought the tear to many
an eye.

“I knew you were men!” said Ernest,
in a tone of decision. “Let
us do, rather than say! Prepare,
those of you who are disposed to
follow me, and let us depart forthwith!”

“But the women, the wounded
and dead—what of them?” asked
one.

“Let some two or three remain
here, while one mounts the fleetest
horse and bears tidings of the dire
calamity to the village. There is
no danger here at present; for the
savages, having accomplished their
hellish work, are already on their
homeward retreat. We must strive
to overtake them on the way.”

“But how shall we follow, not
knowing whither they went?” asked
the same voice which had spoken
before, and which Clifton now became
aware proceeded from the lips
of Danvers.

“I know by their war-paint,” answered
the young officer, “that
they are a detachment of Piquas,
and, if my eyes did not deceive me,
were led by a white man.”

“By heavens! I see it all!” said
Danvers, in reply. “It is that inhuman
wretch, Moody.”

A mingled expression of horror
and loathing, with a determination
to be revenged, was now visible on
nearly every face.

“I have no doubt you are right,”
rejoined Clifton; “for the size of
his person, and the shape of his features,
as described to me, correspond
exactly to the monster I beheld.”

“He shall die a dog's death!”
shouted one.

“Hung and quartered without
judge or jury!” said another.

“Roasted over a slow fire!” responded
a third.

“He shall chew his own heart!”
added a fourth.

“Ay, but let us catch him first,”
timed in Clifton. “While we tarry,
he is fleeing. Let us act at once.”

“Ay! ay!” shouted half-a-dozen
voices.

“Before you go, my friends, upon
a journey that may be your last,
let us unite in prayer, to that God
who does all things for the best,
and for our good, even when visiting
us with sore afflictions,” said the
venerable and pious clergyman—
who, throughout the affray, had
been left unharmed, and had remained,
so far, a quiet and seemingly
unmoved spectator, with his
arms meekly folded on his breast,
the picture of humility and resignation.
“Let us call upon our Maker
for aid, in this our sorest need!”

and kneeling upon the ground, he
extended his arms aloft, and made
a most fervent and eloquent prayer,
which was rendered doubly solemn
by the mournfulness of the occasion.

When this was over, Clifton gave
orders for those who were to accompany
him, to prepare themselves
and set forth immediately. Some
six or eight of the party, among
whom were Danvers and Ichabod,
volunteered their services at once,
and in a few minutes all were ready
for the perilous journey. The pastor,
and one or two others, remained
to take charge of the nearly distracted
females, until aid should
arrive from the village—when the
wounded would be better cared for,
and the dead consigned to dust,
with all due ceremony.

Collecting what weapons they
could, together with a good supply
of ammunition, the party in a few
minutes formed around Clifton as
their leader, who announced to the
rest, that the solemn moment of separation
had arrived.

It would be impossible to describe
the scene which ensued. Each
seemed for a time to give himself
up to his strongest feelings. Lovers
rushed to each other with a
freedom and wildness which nothing
but a similar occasion could
justify, threw themselves into
each other's arms, and clung around
each other's necks, as if they felt
the separation to be eternal; while
groans, cries and sobs of anguish
resounded on all sides. For some
moments all was great commotion;
but gradually the tumult ceased,
until nothing could be heard but a
low murmur, in a choked voice, or
a deep drawn sigh, or a half stifled
burst of grief.

“We waste time,” said Clifton, at
length.

“Go, my friends, and God be with
you,” said the preacher, solemnly;
“and Heaven send you may return
with the maiden you seek—the flower
of the forest!”

“Amen!” responded Clifton, and
two or three others; and throwing
open the door, the bereaved lover
rushed out, followed immediately by
his companions.

“I must detain you one moment
more,” he added, as he felt a sharp
pain in his head; and springing
back into the house, he called for a
bandage. This was quickly supplied
and bound around his wound;
then hastily washing the blood from
his face, he rejoined his party.

“Let us follow the Miami,” he
continued, “for I know of no better
plan, and it is possible that in the
morning we may strike upon their
trail.”

“Is there none of our party that
understand trailing the savage?”
asked one.

“I fear not,” replied Clifton. “I
know of an experienced scout, but
he is far away now, in another part
of the country. I would to Heaven
he were here!”

“And what may be his name?”
inquired a strange voice, which all
immediately became aware proceeded
from a figure, a few paces
distant, that was nearing them with
long and steady strides. “What
may be the scout's name you've just
alluded to, lieutenant?” he asked
again, as he came up, addressing
himself to Clifton.

“David Grant,” answered the
young officer, endeavoring to make
out the features of the new comer,
as he paused in the shadow cast by
the moon.

“I'm David Grant,” was the laconic
response.

“Great Heaven! David, what
sent you here so opportune?” cried

Clifton, grasping the hard, weather-beaten
hand of the other,
with a pressure of unmistakeable
joy.

“May be Heaven did,” was the
quiet answer.

“It would seem so,” rejoined Ernest;
“for of all men, you are the
one I most desired to see, at this
momentous crisis.”

“Something's gone wrong, I reckon?”
said David, in reply.

Clifton now hurriedly narrated
the leading features of the
events we have so feebly described.

“I'spected as much,” rejoined the
scout, when he had concluded.
“He told me I'd be wanted.”

“He! whom!” cried several of
the party, in astonishment.

“Don't know who,” replied the
other, “for he was a stranger to me.
He spoke like a man, but looked
like the devil.”

“Was he tall, ill-dressed, rawboned
and ugly?” inquired Ernest,
quickly.

“Well he was all that.”

“Had a long, flowing beard?”

“Powerful long beard he
had.”

“And seemed partly blind?”

“For the matter o' that, he looked
like he might be blind altogether,”
was the reply.

“It was the Necromancer,” returned
Ernest, gravely.

“Ay! that mysterious Blind Luther,
and none other,” said Danvers,
shaking his head with a superstitious
air.

“Where did you see him, and
what did he say to you?” asked the
lieutenant.

“I was scouting in the forest,
more'n forty miles distant,” answered
Grant, “when's I passed around
a tree, my hair riz right up, on
hearing a voice say:

“`Hold, David!'

“I tried to tree, but could'nt, for
a big hand on my shoulder, that
would'nt let me go.

“`Who are you?' says I.

“`A messenger of fate,' says
he.

“`What d'ye want with me?'

“`Hie thee to Columbia,' he says,
`and inquire for Lieutenant Clifton's
wedding.'

“`I did'nt know he was going to
be married,' says I.

“`Do as I bid thee, and ask no
questions!' says he; `and be sure
you reach there at an early hour,
on such a night (this is the night),
when you'll find yourself wanted,
and orders will be given you what
to do.'

“Short on't is, gentlemen, I'm
here; though sometimes I did
quarrel with David Grant—thinking
as how I was going on a
fool's errand, or at a madman's
beck.”

“You could never have come at
a better time, unless it had been
to warn us of danger,” said Clifton,
solemnly. “Now, David, I
have told you the circumstances,
and wait your advice on the matter.”

“You say you think they're Piquas?”

“I am almost sure of it.”

“And what object had they in
doing's they did, 'spect you?”

“Their leader, I think, is a white
man disguised, whose sole object
was to get possession of the girl.
Some months ago, he was a suitor
to her hand, and she rejected him,
and he swore revenge. Shortly
after, her father was murdered
by his hand. To-night he has
butchered her mother in cold
blood, and made her captive for
some hellish end, of which I groan
to think.”

For a moment the scout mused,
as one in deep thought, and then
said:

“I'spect you're right, lieutenant,
and that I know the party with
him. How'd they number?”

“Not more than ten or twelve,
as near as I can judge.”

“It's them for a wager. I've
been on their trail, not a week ago;
and now I comprehend the spread
moccason.”

“I do not understand you,” said
Clifton.

“Why, there was one moccason
among 'em, that toed out'ard like a
white man's; and I says to myself
then, `David Grant, that's ayther
a pris'ner or a renegade.' I'm glad
you've told me of this, for now I
reckon to find 'em. Nigh's I can
come to it, they don't belong to the
regular tribe o' Piquas, but are a
kinder o' outlawry vagabonds, that
skulk about on their own hook, and
are most powerful mean cowards.”

As David delivered himself of
this, he strode forward into the
moonlight, and displayed the lineaments
of a being well calculated
for a life in the woods. He was
about thirty-five years of age, and
above the ordinary stature. His
form was shriveled and sinewy, as
if dried and contracted by long exposure
to the weather. His features
were long, thin and bony;
and his small black eyes were continually
rolling about, with a nervous
motion, as if eternally on the
look out for danger. His long,
shaggy hair was surmounted with
a roughly formed cap, made from
the untanned skin of some wild animal.
He wore a hunting-shirt of
linsey-woolsey, to which was attached
a large cape, fringed with
red. Around his waist was a belt,
in which were a scalping-knife and
tomahawk. He wore moccasons
on his feet, and around his neck
was suspended a large powder-horn
and bullet-pouch, and in his hand
he held a long rifle.

As David stepped forth, he immediately
began a survey of the
heavens above, and the earth beneath,
with the air of one long
practiced in the art of reading the
sings of the forest, so necessary in
determining the movements of the
woodman.

“It's a going to be a foggy night,”
he said; “that a child could tell;
for already now the clouds of mist
are lifting their heads along the
trail o' the rivers, and rolling out
ayther way, while a thick haze's
beginning to darken the moon. I
see, by the ground signs, the varmints
have took up the river; and
so I reckon our best course is to
follow that, and git as far's we can
afore daylight; and it's not impossible
we'll head 'em off, or come
upon their camp.”

“Then let us go at once,” said
Clifton, impatiently.

“Don't hurry, lieutenant,” returned
David, respectfully, bending
down to examine the ground at his
feet; “there's nothing made by hurrying—'specially
when you've got
to go by signs. Here's the trail,
sure enough,” he continued, “and
a bloody one 'tis, too. Ha! there's
been a scuffle here, I know by the
ground being trod a few. Any o'
your party fight outside?”

“Heavens! it is the sentinel!”
exclaimed Danvers; “for it was
here he was stationed.”

The sentinel it proved to be; for
the next moment the poor fellow
was discovered, a few paces distant,
lying on his breast, and his
head bloody from the recent removal
of his scalp. His rifle was
found near him, discharged, and

the breach broken, showing that
he had done his best for himself
and friends.

Examining the body, and finding
that life was extinct, our party, with
a few words of eulogy and regret,
passed on, leaving his remains to
be taken care of by those who remained
behind. In a few minutes
they were swallowed up in the
great forest; and silence, deep and
gloomy, reigned over the scene so
lately rife with tumult and blood-shed.