University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.

I had heard enough of my father's early adventures to
know that the man mentioned in the last chapter had been a
conspicuous actor in them, and remembered that the latter
enjoyed the fullest confidence of the former. It was news
to me, however, that Sureflint and the Trackless were the

same person; though, when I came to reflect on the past, I
had some faint recollection of having once before heard
something of the sort. At any rate, I was now with a friend,
and no longer thought it necessary to be on my guard. This
was a great relief, in every point of view, as one does not
like to travel at the side of a stranger, with an impression,
however faint, that the latter may blow his brains out, the
first time he ventures to turn his own head aside.

Susquesus was drawing near to the decline of life. Had
he been a white man, I might have said he was in a “green
old age;” but the term of “red old age” would suit him
much better. His features were still singularly fine; while
the cheeks, without being very full, had that indurated, solid
look, that flesh and muscles get from use and exposure. His
form was as erect as in his best days, a red-man's frame
rarely yielding in this way to any pressure but that of exceeding
old age, and that of rum. Susquesus never admitted
the enemy into his mouth, and consequently the citadel of
his physical man was secure against every invader but time.
In-toed and yielding in his gait, the old warrior and runner
still passed over the ground with an easy movement; and,
when I had occasion to see him increase his speed, as soon
after occurred, I did not fail to perceive that his sinews
seemed strung to their utmost force, and that every movement
was free.

For a time, the Indian and I talked of the late war, and
of the scenes in which each of us had been an actor. If my
own modesty was as obvious as that of Sureflint, I had no
reason to be dissatisfied with myself; for, the manner in
which he alluded to events in which I knew he had been
somewhat prominent, was simple and entirely free from
that boasting in which the red-man is prone to indulge;
more especially when he wishes to provoke his enemies.
At length I changed the current of the discourse, by saying
abruptly—

“You were not alone in that pine thicket, Susquesus;
that from which you came, when you joined me?”

“No—sartain; wasn't alone. Plenty people dere.”

“Is there an encampment of your tribe among those
bushes?”

A shade passed over the dark countenance of my companion,

and I saw a question had been asked that gave him
pain. He paused some little time before he answered; and,
when he did, it was in a way that seemed sad.

“Susquesus got tribe no longer. Quit Onondagos t'irty
summer, now; don't like Mohawk.”

“I remember to have heard something of this from my
father, who told me at the same time, that the reason why
you left your people was to your credit. But, you had music
in the thicket?”

“Yes; gal sing—gal love sing; warrior like listen.”

“And the song?—In what language were the words?”

“Onondago”—answered the Indian, in a low tone.

“I had no idea the music of the red people was so sweet.
It is many a day since I have heard a song that went so
near to my heart, though I could not understand what was
said.”

“Bird, pretty bird—sing like wren.”

“And is there much of this music in your family, Susquesus?
If so, I shall come often to listen.”

“Why not come? Path got no briar; short path, too.
Gal sing, when you want.”

“Then I shall certainly be your guest, some day, soon.
Where do you live, now? Are you Sureflint, or Trackless,
to-day? I see you are armed, but not painted.”

“Hatchet buried berry deep, dis time. No dig him up,
in great many year. Mohawk make peace; Oneida make
peace; Onondago make peace—all bury 'e hatchet.”

“Well, so much the better for us landholders. I have
come to sell and lease my lands; perhaps you can tell me
if many young men are out hunting for farms this summer?”

“Wood full. Plenty as pigeon. How you sell land?”

“That will depend on where it is, and how good it is.
Do you wish to buy, Trackless?”

“Injin own all land, for what he want, now. I make
wigwam where I want; make him, too, when I want.”

“I know very well that you Indians do claim such a
right; and, so long as the country remains in its present
wild state, no one will be apt to refuse it to you. But, you
cannot plant and gather, as most of your people do in their
own country.”

“Got no squaw — got no pappoose — little corn do for
Susquesus. No tribe — no squaw — no pappoose!”

This was said in a low, deliberate voice, and with a species
of manly melancholy that I found very touching. Complaining
men create very little sympathy, and those who
whine are apt to lose our respect; but, I know no spectacle
more imposing than that of one of stern nature smothering
his sorrows beneath the mantle of manliness and self-command.

“You have friends, Susquesus,” I answered, “if you
have no wife nor children.”

“Fader, good friend; hope son friend, too. Grandfader
great friend, once; but he gone far away, and nebber come
back. Know moder, know fader—all good.”

“Take what land you want, Trackless — till it, sell it —
do what you wish with it.”

The Indian eyed me keenly, and I detected a slight smile
of pleasure stealing over his weather-worn face. It was not
easy to throw him off his habitual guard over his emotions,
however; and the gleam of illumination passed away, like a
ray of sunshine in mid-winter. The sternest white man
might have grasped my hand, and something like a sign of
gratitude would probably have escaped him; but, the little
trace of emotion I have mentioned having disappeared, nothing
remained on the dark visage of my companion that,
in the least, resembled an evidence of yielding to any of the
gentler feelings. Nevertheless, he was too courteous, and
had too much of the innate sentiment of a gentleman, not to
make some return for an offer that had so evidently and
spontaneously come from the heart.

“Good” — he said, after a long pause. “Berry good,
dat; good, to come from young warrior to ole warrior.
Tankee — bird plenty; fish plenty; message plenty, now;
and don't want land. Time come, maybe—s'pose he must
come — come to all ole red-men, hereabout; so s'pose must
come.”

“What time do you mean, Trackless? Let it come when
it may, you have a friend in me. What time do you mean,
my brave old Sureflint?”

The Trackless stopped, dropped the breech of his rifle on

the ground, and stood meditating a minute, motionless, and
as grand as some fine statue.

“Yes; time come, do s'pose,” he continued. “One time,
ole warrior live in wigwam, and tell young warrior of scalp,
and council-fire, and hunt, and war-path; now, make broom
and basket.”

It was not easy to mistake this; and I do not remember
ever to have felt so lively an interest, on so short an acquaintance,
as I began to feel in this Onondago. Priscilla
Bayard herself, however lovely, graceful, winning and
feminine, had not created a feeling so strong and animated,
as that which was awakened within me in behalf of old
Sureflint. But, I fully understood that this was to be shown
in acts, and not in words. Contenting myself for the present,
after the fashion of the pale-faces, by grasping and squeezing
the sinewy hand of the warrior, we walked on together,
making no farther allusion to a subject that, I can truly say,
was as painful to me as it was to my companion.

“I have heard your name mentioned as one of those who
were at the Nest with my father, when he was a young
man, Susquesus,” I resumed, “and when the Canada Indians
attempted to burn the house.”

“Good — Susquesus dere — young Dutch chief kill dat
time.”

“Very true — his name was Guert Ten Eyck; and my
father and mother, and your old friend colonel Follock,
who was afterwards major of our regiment, you will remember,
they love his memory to this day, as that of a very
dear friend.”

“Dat all, love memory, now?” asked the Indian, throwing
one of his keenest glances at me.

I understood the allusion, which was to aunt Mary, whom
I had heard spoken of as the betrothed, or, at least, as the
beloved, of the young Albanian.

“Not all; for there is a lady, who still mourns his loss,
as if she had been his widow.”

“Good — do' squaw don't mourn fery long time. Sometime;
not always.”

“Pray, Trueflint, do you happen to know anything of a
man called the Chainbearer? He was in the regiment, too,
and you must have seen him in the war.”

“Sartain—know Chainbearer—know him on war-path—
know him when hatchet buried. Know Chainbearer afore
ole French war. Live in wood wid him—one of us. Chainbearer
my friend.”

“I rejoice to hear this, for he is also mine; and I shall be
glad to come into the compact, as a friend of both.”

“Good—Susquesus and young landlord friend of Chainbearer—good.”

“It is good, and a league that shall not be forgotten
easily by me. The Chainbearer is as honest as light, and
as certain as his own compass, Trueflint — true, as yourself.”

“'Fraid he make broom 'fore great while, too,” said the
Indian, expressing the regret I have no doubt he felt, very
obviously in his countenance.

Poor old Andries! But for the warm and true friends he
had in my father, colonel Dirck and myself, there was some
danger this might be the case, indeed. The fact that he had
served his country in a revolution would prove of little avail,
that country being too poor to provide for its old servants,
and possibly indisposed, had she the means.[1] I say this
without intending to reflect on either the people or the government;
for, it is not easy to make the men of the present
day understand the deep depression, in a pecuniary sense,
that rested on the land for a year or two after peace was
made. It recovered, as the child recovers from indisposition,
by the vigour of its constitution and the power of its vitality;
and one of the means by which it recovered, was by turning

to the soil, and wielding the sickle instead of the sword. To
continue the discourse.

“The Chainbearer is an honest man, and, like too many
of his class, poor,” I answered; “but, he has friends; and
neither he, nor you, Sureflint, shall be reduced to that woman's
work without your own consent, so long as I have
an unoccupied house, or a farm, at Ravensnest.”

Again the Indian manifested his sense of my friendship
for him, by that passing gleam on his dark face; and again
all signs of emotion passed slowly away.

“How long since see him?” he asked me, suddenly.

“See him — the Chainbearer do you mean? I have not
seen him, now, for more than a twelvemonth; not since we
parted when the regiment was disbanded.”

“Don't mean Chainbearer — mean him,” pointing ahead
—“house, tree, farm, land, Nest.”

“Oh! How long is it since I saw the patent. I never
saw it, Sureflint;—this is my first visit.”

“Dat queer! How you own land, when nebber see
him?”

“Among the pale-faces we have such laws, that property
passes from parent to child; and I inherit mine, in this
neighbourhood, from my grandfather, Herman Mordaunt.”

“What dat mean, 'herit? How man haf land, when he
don't keep him?”

“We do keep it, if not by actually remaining on the spot,
by means of our laws and our titles. The pale-faces regulate
all these things on paper, Sureflint.”

“T'ink dat good? Why no let man take land where he
want him, when he want him? Plenty land. Got more
land dan got people. 'Nough for ebbery body.”

“That fact makes our laws just; if there were not land
enough for everybody, these restrictions and divisions might
possibly seem to be, and in fact be, unjust. Now, any man
can have a farm who will pay a very moderate price for it.
The State sells, and landlords sell; and those who don't
choose to buy of one, can buy of the other.”

“Dat true 'nough; but don't see need of dat paper.
When he want to stay on land, let him stay; when he want
to go somewhere let 'noder man come. What good pay for
betterment?”

“So as to have betterments. These are what we call the
rights of property, without which no man would aim at being
anything more than clad and fed. Who would hunt,
if anybody that came along had a right to pick up and skin
his game?”

“See dat, well 'nough — nebber do; no, nebber. Don't
see why land go like skin, when skin go wid warrior and
hunter, and land stay where he be.”

“That is because the riches of you red-men are confined
to movable property, and to your wigwams, so long as you
choose to live in them. Thus far, you respect the rights
of property as well as the pale-faces; but you must see a
great difference between your people and mine! — Between
the red-man and the white man?”

“Be sure, differ: one strong, t'oder weak — one rich,
t'oder poor—one great, t'oder little—one drive 'way, t'oder
haf to go—one get all, t'oder keep nuttin'—one march large
army, t'oder go Injin file, fifty warrior, p'rhaps—dat reason,
t'ing so.”

“And why can the pale-faces march in large armies, with
cannon, and horses, and bayonets, and the red-man not do
the same?”

“'Cause he no got 'em—no got warrior—no got gun—
no got baggonet—no got nuttin.”

“You have given the effect for the cause, Sureflint, or
the consequences of the reason, for the reason itself. I
hope I make you understand me. Listen, and I will explain.
You have lived much with the white men, Susquesus,
and can believe what I say. There are good, and there are
bad, among all people. Colour makes no difference, in this
respect. Still, all people are not alike. The white man is
stronger than the red-man, and has taken away his country,
because he knows most.”

“He most, too. Count army, den count war-trail; you
see.”

“It is true, the pale-faces are the most numerous now;
but once they were not. Do not your traditions tell you
how few the Yengeese were, when they first came across
the salt lake?”

“Come in big canoe—two, t'ree full—no more.”

“Why then did two or three ship's-full of white men become

so strong as to drive back from the sea all the red
warriors, and become masters of the land? Can you give
a reason for that?”

“'Cause he bring fire-water wid him, and red-man big
fool to drink.”

“Even that fire-water, which doubtless has proved a
cruel gift to the Indians, is one of the fruits of the white
man's knowledge. No, Susquesus; the red-skin is as brave
as the pale-face; as willing to defend his rights, and as able-bodied;
but he does not know as much. He had no gunpowder
until the white man gave it to him — no rifle — no
hoe, no knife, no tomahawk, but such as he made himself
from stones. Now, all the knowledge, and all the arts of
life that the white man enjoys and turns to his profit, come
from the rights of property. No man would build a wigwam
to make rifles in, if he thought he could not keep it as long
as he wished, sell it when he pleased, and leave it to his son
when he went to the land of spirits. It is by encouraging
man's love of himself, in this manner, that he is got to do so
much. Thus it is, too, that the father gives to the son what
he has learned, as well as what he has built or bought; and
so, in time, nations get to be powerful, as they get to be what
we call civilized. Without these rights of property, no people
could be civilized; for no people would do their utmost, unless
each man were permitted to be master of what he can
acquire, subject to the great and common laws that are necessary
to regulate such matters. I hope you understand
my meaning, Trackless.”

“Sartain — no like Trackless' moccasin — my young
friend's tongue leave trail. But, you t'ink Great Spirit say
who shall haf land; who no haf him?”

“The Great Spirit has created man as he is, and the
earth as it is; and he has left the one to be master of the
other. If it were not his pleasure that man should not do
as he has done, it would not be done. Different laws and
different feelings would then bring about different ends.
When the law places all men on a level, as to rights, it does
as much as can be expected of it. Now, this level does
not consist in pulling everything to pieces periodically, but
in respecting certain great principles that are just in themselves;
but which, once started, must be left to follow their

own course. When the rights of property are first established,
they must be established fairly, on some admitted rule;
after which, they are to remain inviolable — that is to say,
sacred.”

“Understand—no live in clearin' for nuttin'. Mean, haf
no head widout haf farm.”

“That is the meaning, substantially, Sureflint; though I
might have explained it a little differently. I wish to say
pale-faces would be like the red-man without civilization;
and without civilization if they had no rights in their land.
No one will work for another as he will work for himself.
We see that every day, in the simplest manner, when we
see that the desire to get good wages will not make the
common labourer do as much by the day as he will do by
the job.”

“Dat true,” answered the Indian, smiling; for he seldom
laughed; and repeating a common saying of the country—
“By—de—day—by—de—day—By de job, job, job! Dat
pale-face religion, young chief.”

“I don't know that our religion has much to do with it;
but I will own it is our practice. I fancy it is the same with
all races and colours. A man must work for himself to do
his most; and he cannot work for himself unless he enjoy
the fruits of his labour. Thus it is, that he must have a
right of property in land, either bought or hired, in order to
make him cause that land to produce all that nature intended
it should produce. On this necessity is founded the rights
of property; the gain being civilization; the loss ignorance,
and poverty, and weakness. It is for this reason, then, that
we buy and sell land, as well as clothes and arms, and
beads.”

“T'ink, understand. Great Spirit, den, say must have
farm?”

“The Great Spirit has said we must have wants and
wishes, that can be met, or gratified only, by having farms.
To have farms we must have owners; and owners cannot
exist unless their rights in their lands are protected. As
soon as these are gone, the whole building would tumble
down about our ears, Susquesus.”

“Well, s'pose him so. We see, some time. Young chief
know where he is?”

“Not exactly; but I suppose we are drawing near to the
lands of Ravensnest.”

“Well, queer 'nough, too! Own land, but don't know
him. See—marked tree—dat sign your land begin.”

“Thank you, Sureflint — a parent would not know his
own child, when he saw him for the first time. If I am
owner here, you will remember that this is my first visit to
the spot.”

While conversing, the Trackless had led me from the
highway into a foot-path, which, as I afterwards discovered,
made a short cut across some hills, and saved us near two
miles in the distance. In consequence of this change in our
course, Jaap could not have overtaken me, had he moved
faster than he did; but, owing to the badness of the road,
our gait on foot was somewhat faster than that of the jaded
beasts who dragged the wagon. My guide knew the way
perfectly; and, as we ascended a hill, he pointed out the
remains of an old fire, near a spring, as a spot where he
was accustomed to “'camp,” when he wished to remain
near, but not in the 'Nest.

“Too much rum in tavern”—he said. “No good stay
near rum.”

This was extraordinary forbearance for an Indian; but
Susquesus, I had ever understood, was an extraordinary
Indian. Even for an Onondago, he was temperate and self-denying.
The reason why he lived away from his tribe
was a secret from most persons; though I subsequently
ascertained it was known to the Chainbearer, as well as my
father. Old Andries always affirmed it was creditable to
his friend; but he would never betray the secret. Indeed,
I found that the sympathy which existed between these two
men, each of whom was so singular in his way, was
cemented by some occurrences of their early lives, to which
occasional, but vague allusions were made, but which neither
ever revealed to me, or to any other person, so far as I
could ascertain.

Soon after passing the spring, Sureffint led me out to a
cleared spot on the eminence, which commanded an extensive
view of most of that part of my possessions which was
under lease and occupied. Here we halted, seating ourselves
on a fallen tree, for which one could never go amiss

in that region, and at that day; and I examined the view
with the interest which ownership is apt to create in us all.
The earth is very beautiful in itself; but it is most beautiful
in the eyes of those who have the largest stake in it, I fear.

Although the property of Ravensnest had been settled
fully thirty years when I first saw it, none of those signs
of rapid and energetic improvement were visible that we
have witnessed in the efforts of similar undertakings since
the revolution. Previously to that great event, the country
filled up very slowly, and each colony seemed to regard
itself, in some measure, as a distinct country. Thus it was
that we in New York obtained very few immigrants from
New England, that great hive which has so often swarmed
since, and the bees of which have carried their industry and
ingenuity over so much of the republic in our own time.
We of New York have our prejudices against the Yankees,
and have long looked upon them with eyes of distrust and
disfavour. They have repaid us in kind, perhaps; but their
dislikes have not been strong enough to prevent them from
coming to take possession of our lands. For my own part,
while I certainly see much in the New England character
that I do not like, (more in their manners and minor ways,
perhaps, than in essentials), I as certainly see a great deal
to command my respect. If the civilization that they carry
with them is not of a very high order, as is connected with
the tastes, sentiments, and nicer feelings, it is superior to
that of any other country I have visited, in its commonsense
provisions, and in its care over the intellectual being,
considered in reference to the foundations of learning. More
persons are dragged from out the mire of profound ignorance
under their system, than under that of any other people;
and a greater number of candidates are brought forward for
intellectual advancement. That so few of these candidates
rise very high on the scale of knowledge, is in part owing
to the circumstance that their lives are so purely practical;
and, possibly, in part to the fact that while so much attention
has been paid to the foundations of the social edifice,
that little art or care has as yet been expended on the superstructure.
Nevertheless, the millions of Yankees that are
spreading themselves over the land, are producing, and have
already produced, a most salutary influence on its practical

knowledge, on its enterprise, on its improvements, and consequently
on its happiness. If they have not done much for
its tastes, its manners, and its higher principles, it is because
no portion of the earth is perfect. I am fully aware that this
is conceding more than my own father would have conceded
in their favour, and twice as much as could have been extracted
from either of my grandfathers. But, prejudice is
wearing away, and the Dutchman and the Yankee, in particular,
find it possible to live in proximity and charity. It
is possible that my son may be willing to concede even more.
Our immigrant friends should remember one thing, however,
and it would render them much more agreeable as companions
and neighbours, which is this: — He who migrates is
bound to respect the habits and opinions of those whom he
joins; it not being sufficient for the perfection of everything
under the canopy of heaven, that it should come from our
own little corner of the earth. Even the pumpkin-pies of
the Middle States are vastly better than those usually found
in New England. To return to Ravensnest.

The thirty years of the settlement of my patent, then, had
not done much for it, in the way of works of art. Time, it
is true, had effected something, and it was something in a
manner that was a little peculiar, and which might be oftener
discovered in the country at the time of which I am writing,
than at the present day. The timber of the 'Nest, with the
exception of some mountain-land, was principally what, in
American parlance, is termed “hard wood.” In other words,
the trees were not perennial, but deciduous; and the merest
tyro in the woods knows that the roots of the last decay in
a fourth of the time that the roots of the first endure, after
the trunk is severed. As a consequence, the stumps had
nearly all disappeared from the fields; a fact that, of itself,
gave to the place the appearance of an old country, according
to our American notions. It is true, the virgin forest
still flourished in immediate contact with those fields, shorn,
tilled and smoothed as they were, giving a wild and solemn
setting to the rural picture the latter presented. The contrast
was sufficiently bold and striking, but it was not without
its soft and pleasant points. From the height whither
the Indian had led me, I had a foreground of open land,
dotted with cottages and barns, mostly of logs, beautified

by flourishing orchards, and garnished with broad meadows,
or enriched by fields, in which the corn was waving under
the currents of a light summer air. Two or three roads
wound along the settlement, turning aside with friendly interest,
to visit every door; and at the southern termination of
the open country, there was a hamlet, built of wood framed,
which contained one house that had little taste, but a good
deal more of pretension than any of its neighbours; another,
that was an inn; a store, a blacksmith's-shop, a school-house,
and three or four other buildings, besides barns,
sheds and hog-pens. Near the hamlet, or the “Nest Village,”
as the place was called, were the mills of the region. These
were a grist-mill, a saw-mill, a fulling-mill, and an oil-mill.
All were of moderate dimensions, and, most probably, of
moderate receipts. Even the best house was not painted,
though it had some very ambitious attempts at architecture,
and enjoyed the benefits of no less than four exterior doors,
the uses of one of which, as it opened into the air from the
second story, it was not very easy to imagine. Doubtless
some great but unfinished project of the owner lay at the
root of this invention. But living out of doors, as it were,
is rather a characteristic of a portion of our people.

The back-ground of this picture, to which a certain degree
of rural beauty was not wanting, was the “boundless
woods.” Woods stretched away, north, and south, and east,
far as eye could reach; woods crowned the sides and summits
of all the mountains in view; and woods rose up, with
their leafy carpeting, from out the ravines and dells. The
war had prevented any very recent attempts at clearing,
and all the open ground wore the same aspect of homely
cultivation, while the dark shades of an interminable forest
were spread around, forming a sort of mysterious void, that
lay between this obscure and remote people, and the rest of
their kind. That forest, however, was not entirely savage.
There were other settlements springing up in its bosom; a
few roads wound their way through its depths; and, here
and there, the hunter, the squatter, or the red-man, had
raised his cabin, and dwelt amid the sullen but not unpleasant
abundance and magnificence of the wilderness.