 | CHAPTER V. The chainbearer, or, The Littlepage manuscripts |  |
5. CHAPTER V.
His gestures strange, and varying face,
With many a muttered sound;
And ah! too late, aghast, I view'd
The reeking blade, the hand embru'd:
He fell, and groaning grasp'd in agony the ground.”
Warton.
In this manner passed that long and wearying day. I
could, and did take exercise, by walking to and fro in my
prison; but the Indian seldom stirred, from the moment he
entered. As for the squatter himself, he came no more near
the storehouse, though I saw him, two or three times in the
course of the day, in private conference with his elder sons,
most probably consulting on my case. At such moments,
their manner was serious, and there were instants when I
fancied it menacing.
Provision was made for our comfort by throwing a sufficient
number of bundles of straw into the prison, and my
fellow-captive and myself had each a sufficiently comfortable
bed. A soldier was not to be frightened at sleeping on
straw, moreover; and, as for Susquesus, he asked for no
more than room to stretch himself, though it were even on a
rock. An Indian loves his ease, and takes it when it comes
in his way; but it is really amazing to what an extent his
powers of endurance go, when it becomes necessary for him
to exert them.
In the early part of the night I slept profoundly, as I believe
did the Indian. I must acknowledge that an uncomfortable
effect in keeping me from slumbering, though fatigue soon
overcame the apprehensions such a feeling would be likely
to awaken. I did not know but Thousandacres and his sons
might take it into their heads to make away with the Indian
and myself under cover of the darkness, as the most effectual
means of protecting themselves against the consequences
of their past depredations, and of securing the possession of
those that they had projected for the future. We were completely
in their power, and, so far as the squatter knew, the
secret of our visit would die with us; the knowledge of
those of his own flesh and blood possessed on the subject
excepted. Notwithstanding these thoughts crossed my mind,
and did give me some little uneasiness, they were not sufficiently
active or sufficiently prominent to prevent me from
slumbering, after I had fairly fallen asleep, without awaking
once, until it was three o'clock, or within an hour of the
approach of day.
I am not certain that any external cause aroused me from
my slumbers. But, I well remember that I lay there on my
straw, meditating for some time, half asleep and half awake,
until I fancied I heard the musical voice of Dus, murmuring
in my ear my own name. This illusion lasted some little
time; when, as my faculties gradually resumed their powers,
I became slowly convinced that some one was actually calling
me, and by name too, within a foot or two of my ears.
I could not be mistaken; the fact was so, and the call was
in a woman's tones. Springing up, I demanded—
“Who is here? In the name of heaven can this really
be Miss Malbone—Dus!”
“My name is Lowiny,” answered my visitor, “and I'm
Thousandacres' da'ghter. But, don't speak so loud, for
there is one of the b'ys on the watch at the other end of the
store'us', and you 'll wake him up unless you 're careful.”
“Lowiny, is it you, my good girl? Not content to care
for us throughout the day, you still have a thought for us
during the night!”
I thought the girl felt embarrassed, for she must have
been conscious of having a little trespassed on the usages
and reserve of her sex. It is rare, indeed, that any mother,
and especially an American mother, ever falls so low as
and rarer still that she forgets to impart many of the decencies
of woman to her daughter. Old Prudence, notwithstanding
the life she led, and the many causes of corruption
and backslidings that existed around her, was true to her
native instincts, and had taught to her girls many of those
little proprieties that become so great charms in woman.
Lowiny was far from disagreeable in person, and had the
advantage of being youthful in appearance, as well as in
fact. In addition to these marks of her sex, she had manifested
an interest in my fate, from the first, that had not
escaped me; and here she was now doubtless on some
errand of which the object was our good. My remark embarrassed
her, however, and a few moments passed before
she got entirely over the feeling. As soon as she did, she
again spoke.
“I don't think anything of bringing you and the Injin a
little water,” she said—laying an emphasis on the words I
have put in Italics—“nor should I had we any beer or sapcider
instead. But all our spruce is out; and father said he
wouldn't have any more of the cider made, seein' that we
want all the sap for sugar. I hope you had a plentiful supper,
Mr. Littlepage; and for fear you hadn't, I 've brought
you and the red-skin a pitcher of milk and a bowl of hasty-pudding
—he can eat a'ter you 've done, you know.”
I thanked my kind-hearted friend, and received her gift
through a hole that she pointed out to me. The food, in the
end, proved very acceptable, as subsequent circumstances
caused our regular breakfast to be forgotten for a time. I
was desirous of ascertaining from this girl what was said or
contemplated among her relatives, on the subject of my
future fate; but felt a nearly unconquerable dislike to be
prying into what was a species of family secrets, by putting
direct questions to her. Fortunately, the communicative
and friendly disposition of Lowiny, herself, soon removed
all necessity for any such step; for after executing her
main purpose, she lingered with an evident wish to gossip.
“I wish father wouldn't be a squatter any longer,” the
girl said, with an earnestness that proved she was uttering
her real sentiments. “It 's awful to be for ever fighting
ag'in law!”
“It would be far better if he would apply to some landowner,
and get a farm on lease, or by purchase. Land is
so plenty, in this country, no man need go without a legal
interest in his hundred acres, provided he be only sober and
industrious.”
“Father never drinks, unless it 's on the Fourth of July;
and the b'ys be all pretty sober, too, as young men go,
now-a-days. I believe, Mr. Littlepage, if mother has told
father once, she has told him a thousand times, that she
doos wish he 'd leave off squatting, and take writin's for
some piece of land or other. But father says, `no—he
warn't made for writin's, nor writin's for him.' He 's desp'ately
troubled to know what to do with you, now he 's got
you.”
“Did Mr. Newcome give no opinion on the subject,
while he was with you?”
“'Squire Newcome! Father never let on to him a syllable
about ever having seen you. He knows too much to
put himself in 'squire Newcome's power, sin' his lumber
would go all the cheaper for it—What 's your opinion, Mr.
Littlepage, about our right to the boards, when we 've cut,
and hauled, and sawed the logs with our own hands. Don't
that make some difference?”
“What is your opinion of your right to a gown that
another girl has made out of calico she had taken from your
drawer, when your back was turned, and carried away, and
cut, and stitched, and sewed with her own hands?”
“She never would have any right to my calico, let her
cut it as much as she might. But lumber is made out of
trees.”
“And trees have owners, just as much as calicoes.
Hauling, and cutting, and sawing can, of themselves, give
no man a right to another man's logs.”
“I was afeard it was so—” answered Lowiny, sighing
so loud as to be heard. “There 's suthin' in that old bible
I lent you that I read pretty much in that way; though
Tobit, and most of the b'ys say it don't mean any sich
thing. They say there 's nothin' about lumber in the bible,
at all.”
“And what does your mother tell you on this head?”
“Why, mother don't talk about it. She wants father to
Littlepage; when their fri'nds act, it 's all the same as a
law to them to try to think that they act right. Mother
never says any thing to us about the lawfulness of father's
doin's, though she often wishes he would live under writin's.
Mother wants father to try and get writin's of you, now
you 're here, and in his hands. Wouldn't you give us
writin's, Mr. Littlepage, if we 'd promise to give you suthin'
for rent?”
“If I did, they would be good for nothing, unless I were
free, and among friends. Deeds and leases got from men
who are `in the hands,' as you call it, of those who take
them, are of no value.”
“I 'm sorry for that—” rejoined Lowiny, with another
sigh—“not that I wanted you to be driven into any thing,
but, I thought if you would only consent to let father have
writin's for this clearin', it 's so good a time to do it now,
't would be a pity to lose it. If it can't be done, however,
it can't, and there 's no use in complaining. Father thinks
he can hold you 'till the water rises, in the fall, and the
b'ys have run all the lumber down to Albany; a'ter which,
he 'll not be so partic'lar about keepin' you any longer, and
may be he 'll let you go.”
“Hold me until the water rises! Why that will not take
place these three months!”
“Well, Mr. Littlepage, three months don't seem to me
sich a desp'ate long time, when a-body is among fri'nds.
We should treat you as well as we know how, that you
may depend on—I 'll answer for it, you shall want for
nothin' that we 've got to give.”
“I dare say, my excellent girl, but I should be extremely
sorry to trouble your family with so long a visit. As for
the boards, I have no power to waive the rights of the
owners of the land to that property; my power being
merely to sell lots to actual settlers.”
“I 'm sorry to hear that,” answered Lowiny in a gentle
tone, that fully confirmed her words; “for father and the
b'ys be really awful about any thing that touches their profits
for work done. They say their flesh and blood 's in
them boards, and flesh and blood shall go, afore the boards
shall go. It makes my blood run cold to hear the way they
shot the bear that was a'ter the store-hogs, mother said I
acted as well as she could have done herself, and she has
killed four bears and near upon twenty wolves, in her time.
Yes, mother said I behaved like her own da'ghter, and that
she set twice the store by me that she did before.”
“You are a brave girl, Lowiny, and an excellent one in
the main, I make no question. Whatever become of me, I
shall not forget your kindness as long as I live. It will be
a very serious matter, however, to your friends to attempt
keeping me here three or four months, as mine will certainly
have a search for me, when this clearing would be found.
I need not tell you what would be the consequence.”
“What can—what will father and the b'ys do? I can't
bear to think on't — Oh! they 'll not have the hearts to try
to put you out of the way!”
“I should hope not, for their own sakes, and for the
credit of the American name. We are not a nation addicted
to such practices, and I should really regret to learn that
we have made so long a step towards the crimes of older
countries. But, there is little danger of anything of the sort,
after all, my good Lowiny.”
“I hope so, too,” the girl answered in a low, tremulous
voice; “though Tobit is a starn bein' sometimes. He
makes father worse than he would be, if let alone, I know.
But, I must go, now. It 's near day-light, and I hear 'em
stirrin' in Tobit's house. It would cost me dear did any
on 'em know I had been out of my bed, talking to you.”
As this was said, the girl vanished. Before I could find
an aperture to watch her movements, she had disappeared.
Susquesus arose a few minutes later, but he never made
any allusion to the secret visit of the girl. In this respect,
he observed the most scrupulous delicacy, never letting me
know by hint, look, or smile, that he had been in the least
conscious of her presence.
Day came as usual, but it did not find these squatters in
their beds. They appeared with the dawn, and most of
them were at work ere the broad light of the sun was shed
on the forest. Most of the men went down into the river,
and busied themselves, as we supposed, for we could not see
them, in the water, with the apples of their eyes, their
near his habitation, keeping two or three well-grown lads
about him; probably adverting in his mind to the vast
importance it was to all of his race, to make sure of his
prisoners. I could see by the thoughtful manner of the old
squatter, as he lounged around his mill, among his swine,
and walked through his potatoes, that his mind wavered
greatly as to the course he ought to pursue, and that he was
sorely troubled. How long this perplexity of feeling would
have continued, and to what it might have led, it is hard to
say, had it not been cut short by an incident of a very unexpected
nature, and one that called for more immediate
decision and action. I shall relate the occurrence a little
in detail.
The day was considerably advanced, and, Thousandacres
and the girl who then watched the store-house excepted,
everybody was occupied. Even Susquesus had picked up
a piece of birch, and, with a melancholy countenance, that
I fancied was shadowing forth the future life of a half-civilized
red-man, was attempting to make a broom with a part
of a knife that he had found in the building; while I was
sketching, on a leaf of my pocket-book, the mill and a bit
of mountain-land that served it for a back-ground. Thousandacres,
for the first time that morning, drew near our
prison, and spoke to me. His countenance was severe, yet
I could see he was much troubled. As I afterwards ascertained,
Tobit had been urging on him the necessity of putting
both myself and the Indian to death, as the only probable
means that offered to save the lumber.
“Young man,” said Thousandacres, “you have stolen
on me and mine like a thief at night, and you ought to
expect the fate of one. How in natur' can you expect men
will give up their hard 'arnin's without a struggle and a
fight for 'em? You tempt me more than I can bear!”
I felt the fearful import of these words; but human
nature revolted at the thought of being cowed into any submission,
or terms unworthy of my character, or late profession.
I was on the point of making an answer in entire
consonance with this feeling, when, in looking through the
chinks of my prison to fasten an eye on my old tyrant, I
saw Chainbearer advancing directly towards the store-house,
which I gazed at this apparition attracted the attention of
the squatter, who turned and first saw the unexpected visiter
who approached. At the next minute, Andries was at his
side.
“So, T'ousantacres, I fint you here!” exclaimed Chainbearer.
“It 's a goot many years since you and I met, and
I 'm sorry we meet now on such pusiness as t'is!”
“The meetin 's of your own seekin', Chainbearer. I 've
neither invited nor wished for your company.”
“I p'lieve you wit' all my heart. No, no; you wish for
no chains and no chainpearers, no surfeyors and no compasses,
no lots and no owners, too, put a squatter. You and
I haf not to make an acquaintance for t'e first time, Thousandacres,
after knowin' each other for fifty years.”
“Yes, we do know each other for fifty years; and seein'
that them years haven't sarved to bring us of a mind on
any one thing, we should have done better to keep apart,
than to come together now.”
“I haf come for my poy, squatter—my nople poy, whom
you haf illegally arrestet, and mate a prisoner, in the teet' of
all law and justice. Gif me pack Mortaunt Littlepage, and
you 'll soon be rit of my company!”
“And how do you know that I 've ever seen your `Mortaunt
Littlepage?' What have I to do with your boy, that
you seek him of me? Go your ways, go your ways, old
Chainbearer, and let me and mine alone. The world 's
wide enough for us both, I tell you; and why should you be
set on your own ondoin', by runnin' ag'in a breed like that
which comes of Aaron and Prudence Timberman?”
“I care not for you or your preet,” answered old Andries
sternly. “You 've darest to arrest my frient, against law
and right, and I come to demant his liperty, or to warn you
of t'e consequences.”
“Don't press me too far, Chainbearer, don't press me too
far. There 's desp'rate crittur's in this clearin', and them
that isn't to be driven from their righteous 'arnin's by any
that carry chains or p'int compasses. Go your way, I tell
ye, and leave us to gather the harvest that comes of the
seed of our own sowin' and plantin'.”
“Ye 'll gat'er it, ye 'll gat'er it all, T'ousantacres—you
as my niece Dus Malpone has reat to me often, of
late. Ye 'll gat'er in all your harvest, tares ant all, ye will;
and t'at sooner t'an ye t'ink for.”
“I wish I 'd never seen the face of the man! Go away,
I tell you, Chainbearer, and leave me to my hard 'arnin's.”
“Earnin's! Do you call it earnin's to chop and pillage
on anot'er's lants, and to cut his trees into logs, and to saw
his logs into poarts, and sell his poarts to speculators, and
gif no account of your profits to t'e rightful owner of it all?
Call you such t'ievin' righteous earnin's?”
“Thief back ag'in, old measurer! Do not the sweat of
the brow, long and hard days of toil, achin' bones, and
hungry bellies, give a man a claim to the fruit of his
labours?”
“T'at always hast peen your failin', T'ousantacres; t'at 's
t'e very p'int on which you 've proken town, man. You
pegin wit' your morals, at t'e startin' place t'at 's most convenient
to yourself and your plunterin' crew, insteat of goin'
pack to t'e laws of your Lort ant Master. Reat what t'e
Almighty Got of Heaven ant 'art' sait unto Moses, ant you 'll
fint t'at you 've not turnet over leafs enough of your piple.
You may chop ant you may hew, you may haul ant you
may saw, from t'is tay to t'e ent of time, and you 'll nefer
pe any nearer to t'e right t'an you are at t'is moment. T'e
man t'at starts on his journey wit' his face in t'e wrong
tirection, olt T'ousantacres, wilt nefer reach its ent; t'ough
he trafel 'till t'e sweat rolls from his poty like water. You
pegin wrong, olt man, and you must ent wrong.”
I saw the cloud gathering in the countenance of the
squatter, and anticipated the outbreaking of the tempest that
followed. Two fiery tempers had met, and, divided as they
were in opinions and practice, by the vast chasm that separates
principles from expediency, right from wrong, honesty
from dishonesty, and a generous sacrifice of self to support
the integrity of a noble spirit, from a homage to self that
confounded and overshadowed all sense of right, it was not
possible that they should separate without a collision. Unable
to answer Chainbearer's reasoning, the squatter resorted
to the argument of force. He seized my old friend by the
throat and made a violent effort to hurl him to the earth. I
that I do not think it was his wish at that moment to have
assistance; but the instant the struggle commenced the
conch blew, and it was easy to predict that many minutes
would not elapse, before the sons of Thousandacres would
be pouring in to the rescue. I would have given a world to
be able to throw down the walls of my prison, and rush
to the aid of my sterling old friend. As for Susquesus,
he must have felt a lively interest in what was going on, but
he remained as immoveable, and seemingly as unmoved as
a rock.
Andries Coejemans, old as he was, and it will be remembered
he too had seen his three-score years and ten, was
not a man to be taken by the throat with impunity. Thousandacres
met with a similar assault, and a struggle followed
that was surprisingly fierce and well contested, considering
that both the combatants had completed the ordinary
limits of the time of man. The squatter gained a slight
advantage in the suddenness and vigour of his assault, but
Chainbearer was still a man of formidable physical power.
In his prime, few had been his equals; and Thousandacres
soon had reason to know that he had met more than his
match. For a single instant Chainbearer gave ground;
then he rallied, made a desperate effort, and his adversary
was hurled to the earth with a violence that rendered him,
for a short time, insensible; old Andries, himself, continuing
erect as one of the neighbouring pines, red in the face,
frowning, and more severe in aspect than I remembered
ever to have seen him before, even in battle.
Instead of pushing his advantage, Chainbearer did not
stir a foot after he had thrown off his assailant. There he
remained, lofty in bearing, proud and stern. He had reason
to believe no one was a witness of his prowess, but I could
see that the old man had a soldier's feelings at his victory.
At this instant I first let him know my close proximity by
speaking.
“Fly—for your life take to the woods, Chainbearer,” I
called to him, through the chinks. “That conch will bring
all the tribe of the squatters upon you in two or three minutes;
the young men are close at hand, in the stream below the
climb.”
“Got be praiset! Mortaunt, my tear poy, you are not
injuret, t'en! I will open t'e toor of your prison, and we
will retreat toget'er.”
My remonstrances were vain. Andries came round to
the door of the store-house, and made an effort to force it
open. That was not easy, however; for, opening outwards,
it was barred with iron, and secured by a stout lock. Chainbearer
would not listen to my remonstrances, but he looked
around him for some instrument, by means of which he
could either break the lock or draw the staple. As the
mill was at no great distance, away he went in that direction,
in quest of what he wanted, leaving me in despair at
his persevering friendship. Remonstrance was useless, however,
and I was compelled to await the result in silence.
Chainbearer was still a very active man. Nature, early
training, sobriety of life in the main, and a good constitution,
had done this much for him. It was but a moment
before I saw him in the mill, looking for the crow-bar.
This he soon found, and he was on his way to the store-house,
in order to apply this powerful lever, when Tobit
came in sight, followed by all the brethren, rushing up the
bank like a pack of hounds in close pursuit. I shouted to my
friend again to fly, but he came on steadily toward my prison,
bent on the single object of setting me free. All this
time Thousandacres was senseless, his head having fallen
against a corner of the building. Chainbearer was so intent
on his purpose that, though he must have seen the crowd
of young men, no less than six in number, including well-grown
lads, that was swiftly advancing towards him, he did
not bestow the least attention on them. He was actually
busied with endeavouring to force the bar in between the
hasp and the post, when his arms were seized behind, and
he was made a prisoner.
Chainbearer was no sooner apprised of the uselessness
of resistance, than he ceased to make any. As I afterwards
learned from himself, he had determined to become a captive
with me, if he could not succeed in setting me free.
Tobit was the first to lay hands on the Chainbearer; and
had the key, that the door was unbarred, opened, and old
Andries was thrust into the cage, almost in the twinkling
of an eye. The rapidity of the movement was doubtless
aided by the acquiescent feeling that happened to be uppermost
in the mind of Chainbearer, at that precise moment.
No sooner was this new prisoner secured, than the sons
of Thousandacres raised their father's body, and bore it to
his own residence, which was but a few yards distant. Old
and young, both sexes and all ages, collected in that building;
and there was an hour during which we appeared to
be forgotten. The sentinel, who was a son of Tobit's, deserted
his post; and even Lowiny, who had been hovering
in sight of the store-house the whole morning, seemed to
have lost her interest in us. I was too much engaged with
my old friend, and had too many questions to ask and to
answer, however, to care much for this desertion; which,
moreover, was natural enough for the circumstances.
“I rejoice you are not in the hands of that pack of
wolves, my good friend!” I exclaimed, after the first salutations
had passed between Andries and myself, and squeezing
his hand again and again. “They are very capable of any
act of violence; and I feared the sight of their father, lying
there insensible, might have inflamed them to some deed of
immediate violence. There will now be time for reflection,
and, fortunately, I am a witness of all that passed.”
“No fear for olt T'ousantacres,” said Chainbearer,
heartily. “He is tough, and is only a little stunnet, pecause
he t'ought himself a petter man t'an he ist. Half an hour
will pring him rount, and make him as good a man ast he
ever wast. But, Mortaunt, lat, how came you here, and
why wast you wantering apout t'e woods at night, wit'
Trackless, here, who ist a sensiple ret-skin, and ought to
haf set you a petter example?”
“I was hot and feverish, and could not sleep; and so I
took a stroll in the forest, and got lost. Luckily, Susquesus
had an eye on me, and kept himself at hand the whole
time. I was obliged to catch a nap in the top of a fallen
tree, and, when I woke in the morning, the Onondago led
me here in quest of something to eat, for I was hungry as
a famished wolf.”
“Tid Susquesus, t'en, know of squatters having mate
t'eir pitch on t'is property?” asked Andries, in some surprise,
and, as I thought, a little sternly.
“Not he. He heard the saw of the mill in the stillness
of night, and we followed the direction of that sound, and
came unexpectedly out on this settlement. As soon as
Thousandacres ascertained who I was, he shut me up here;
and as for Susquesus, Jaap has doubtless told you the story
he was commissioned to relate.”
“All fery true, lat, all fery true; t'ough I don't half understant,
yet, why you shoul't haf left us in t'e manner you
tit, and t'at, too, after hafin' a long talk wit' Dus. T'e gal
is heart-heafy, Mortaunt, as 'tis plain to pe seen; put I
can't get a syllaple from her t'at hast t'e look of a rational
explanation. I shall haf to ask you to tell t'e story, lat.
I was tryin' to get t'e trut' out of Dus, half of t'e way
comin' here; put a gal is as close as—”
“Dus!” I interrupted — “Half the way coming here?
You do not, cannot mean that Dus is with you.”
“Hist, hist—pe careful. You speak too lout. I coult
wish not to let t'ese scountrels of squatters know t'at t'e gal
is so exposet, put here she ist; or, what is much t'e same,
she is in t'e woots out yonter, a looker-on, and I fear must
pe in consarn at seein' t'at I, too, am a prisoner.”
“Chainbearer, how could you thus expose your niece—
thus bring her into the very grasp of lawless ruffians?”
“No, Mortaunt, no—t'ere is no fear of her peing insultet,
or any t'ing of t'at sort. One can reat of such t'ings in
pooks, put woman is respectet ant not insultet in America.
Not one of T'ousantacres rascals woult wount t'e ear of t'e
gal wit' an improper wort, hat he a chance, which not one
of 'em hast, seein' nopody knows t'e gal is wit' me, put ourselves.
Come she woult, and t'ere wast no use in saying
her nay. Dus is a goot creature, Mortaunt, and a tutiful
gal; put it 's as easy to turn a rifer up stream, as to try to
holt her pack when she loves.”
“Is that her character?” I thought. “Then is there
little chance, indeed, of her ever becoming mine, since her
affections must have gone with her troth.” Nevertheless,
my interest in the noble-hearted girl was just as strong as
if I held her faith, and she was to become mine in a few
return of her uncle, in the woods, was agony to me; but I
had sufficient self-command to question the Chainbearer,
until I got out of him all of the following facts:
Jaap had carried the message of Susquesus, with great
fidelity, to those to whom the Indian had sent it. On hearing
the news, and the manner of my arrest, Andries called
a council, consisting of himself, Dus, and Frank Malbone.
This occurred in the afternoon of the previous day; and that
same night, Malbone proceeded to Ravensnest, with a view
of obtaining warrants for the arrest of Thousandacres and
his gang, as well as of procuring assistance to bring them
all in, in expectation of having the whole party transferred
to the gaol at Sandy Hill. As the warrant could be granted
only by Mr. Newcome, I could easily see that the messenger
would be detained a considerable time, since the magistrate
would require a large portion of the present day to
enable him to reach his house. This fact, however, I
thought it well enough to conceal from my friend, at the
moment.
Early that morning, Chainbearer, Dus, and Jaap, had left
the huts, taking the nearest route to the supposed position
of the clearing of Thousandacres, as it had been described
by the Indian. Aided by a compass, as well as by their
long familiarity with the woods, this party had little difficulty
in reaching the spot where the Onondago and the
negro had met; after which, the remainder of the journey
was through a terra incognita, as respects the adventurers.
With some search, however, a glimpse was got of the light
of the clearing, much as one finds an island in the ocean,
when the skirts of the wood were approached. A favourable
spot, one that possessed a good cover, was selected,
whence Chainbearer reconnoitred for near an hour, before he
left it. After a time he determined on the course he adopted
and carried out, leaving his niece to watch his movements,
with instructions to rejoin her brother, should he himself be
detained by the squatter. I was a little relieved by the
knowledge of the presence of Jaap, for I knew the fidelity
of the fellow too well to suppose he would ever desert Dus;
but my prison became twice as irksome to me after I had
heard this account of Chainbearer's, as it had been before.
| CHAPTER V. The chainbearer, or, The Littlepage manuscripts | |