University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.

For the first half hour after I left Ursula Malbone's hut,
I was literally unconscious of whither I was going, or of
what I was about. I can recollect nothing but having passed
quite near to the Onondago, who appeared desirous of
speaking to me, but whom I avoided by a species of instinct
rather than with any design. In fact, fatigue first brought
me fairly to my senses. I had wandered miles and miles,
plunging deeper and deeper into the wilds of the forest, and
this without any aim, or any knowledge of even the direction
in which I was going. Night soon came to cast its
shadows on the earth, and my uncertain course was held
amid the gloom of the hour, united to those of the woods. I
had wearied myself by rapid walking over the uneven surface
of the forest, and finally threw myself on the trunk of
a fallen tree, willing to take some repose.

At first, I thought of nothing, felt for nothing but the unwelcome
circumstance that the faith of Dus was plighted to
another. Had I fallen in love with Priscilla Bayard, such
an announcement could not have occasioned the same surprise;
for she lived in the world, met with men of suitable
educations, conditions and opinions, and might be supposed
to have been brought within the influence of the attentions
and sympathies that are wont to awaken tenderness in the
female breast. With Dus, it had been very different: she
had gone from the forest to the school, and returned from
the school to the forest. It was true, that her brother, while

a soldier, might have had some friend who admired Ursula,
and whose admiration awakened her youthful sympathies;
but this was only a remote probability, and I was left burthened
with a load of doubt as respected even the character
and position of my rival.

“At any rate, he must be poor,” I said to myself, the
moment I was capable of reflecting coolly on the subject,
“or he would never have left Dus in that hut, to pass her
youth amid chainbearers and the other rude beings of a
frontier. If I cannot obtain her love, I may at least contribute
to her happiness by using those means which a kind Providence
has bestowed, and enabling her to marry at once.”
For a little while I fancied my own misery would be lessened,
could I only see Dus married and happy. This feeling
did not last long, however; though I trust the desire to
see her happy remained after I became keenly conscious it
would require much time to enable me to look on such a
spectacle with composure. Nevertheless, the first tranquil
moment, the first relieving sensation I experienced, was
from the conviction I felt that Providence had placed it in
my power to cause Ursula and the man of her choice to be
united. This recollection gave me even a positive pleasure
for a little while, and I ruminated on the means of effecting
it, literally for hours. I was still thinking of it, indeed,
when I threw myself on the fallen tree, where weariness
caused me to fall into a troubled sleep, that lasted, with
more or less of forgetfulness, several hours. The place I
had chosen on the tree was among its branches, on which
the leaves were still hanging, and it was not without its
conveniences.

When I awoke, it was day-light; or, such a day-light as
penetrates the forest ere the sun has risen. At first I felt
stiff and sore from the hardness of my bed; but, on changing
my attitude and sitting up, these sensations soon wore
off, leaving me refreshed and calm. To my great surprise,
however, I found that a small, light blanket, such as woodmen
use in summer, had been thrown over me, to the genial
warmth of which I was probably indebted more than I
then knew myself. This circumstance alarmed me at first,
since it was obvious the blanket could not have come there
without hands; though a moment's reflection satisfied me

that the throwing it over me, under the circumstances, must
have been the act of a friend. I arose, however to my feet,
walked along the trunk of the tree until clear of its branches,
and looked about me with a lively desire to ascertain who
this secret friend might be.

The place was like any other in the solitude of the forest.
There were the usual array of the trunks of stately trees,
the leafy canopy, the dark shadows, the long vistas, the
brown and broken surface of the earth, and the damp coolness
of the boundless woods. A fine spring broke out of a
hill-side, quite near me, and looking further, with the intention
to approach and use its water, the mystery of the
blanket was at once explained. I saw the form of the
Onondago, motionless as one of the trees which grew around
him, leaning on his rifle, and seemingly gazing at some
object that lay at his feet. In a minute I was at his side,
when I discovered that he was standing over a human skeleton!
This was a strange and startling object to meet in
the depth of the woods! Man was of so little account, was
so seldom seen in the virgin wilds of America, that one
naturally felt more shocked at finding such a memorial of
his presence, in a place like that, than would have been the
case had he stumbled on it amid peopled districts. As for
the Indian, he gazed at the bones so intently that he either
did not hear, or he totally disregarded my approach. I
touched him with a finger before he even looked up. Glad
of any excuse to avoid explanation of my own conduct, I
eagerly seized the occasion offered by a sight so unusual,
to speak of other things.

“This has been a violent death, Sureflint,” I said; “else
the body would not have been left unburied. The man has
been killed in some quarrel of the red warriors.”

“Was bury,” answered the Indian, without manifesting
the least surprise at my touch, or at the sound of my voice.
“Dere, see grave? 'Arth wash away, and bones come out.
Nuttin' else. Know he bury, for help bury, myself.”

“Do you, then, know anything of this unhappy man, and
of the cause of his death?”

“Sartain; know all 'bout him. Kill in ole French war.
Fader here; and colonel Follock; Jaap, too. Huron kill

'em all; afterward, we flog Huron. Yes, dat ole story
now!”

“I have heard something of this! This must have been
the spot, then, where one Traverse, a surveyor, was set
upon by the enemy, and was slain, with his chainbearers
and axe-men. My father and his friends did find the bodies
and bury them, after a fashion.”

“Sartain; just so; poor bury, d'ough, else he nebber
come out of groun'. Dese bones of surveyor; know 'em
well: hab one leg broke, once. Dere; you see mark.”

“Shall we dig a new grave, Susquesus, and bury the
remains again?”

“Best not, now. Chainbearer mean do dat. Be here
by-'m-bye. Got somet'ing else t'ink of now. You own
all land 'bout here, so no need be in hurry.”

“I suppose that my father and colonel Follock do. These
men were slain on the estate, while running out its great
lots. I think I have heard they had not near finished their
work in this quarter of the patent, which was abandoned on
account of the troubles of that day.”

“Just so; who own mill, here, den?”

“There is no mill near us, Susquesus; can be no mill,
as not an acre of the Ridge property has ever been sold or
leased.”

“May be so—mill dough—not far off, needer. Know
mill when hear him. Saw talk loud.”

“You surely do not hear the saw of a mill now, my
friend. I can hear nothing like one.”

“No hear, now; dat true. But hear him in night. Ear
good, in night—hear great way off.”

“You are right enough, there, Susquesus. And you
fancied you heard the stroke of a saw, from this place,
during the quiet and heavy air of the past night?”

“Sartain — know well; hear him plain enough. Isn't
mile off. Out here; find him dere.”

This was still more startling than the discovery of the
skeleton. I had a rough, general map of the patent in my
pocket; and, on examination, I found a mill-stream was laid
down on it, quite near the spot where we stood. The
appearance of the woods, and the formation of the land,
moreover, favoured the idea of the proximity of a mill.

Pine was plenty, and the hills were beginning to swell into
something resembling mountains.

Fasting, and the exercise I had taken, had given me a
keen appetite; and, in one sense at least, I was not sorry to
believe that human habitations were near. Did any persons
dwell in that forest, they were squatters, but I did not feel
much personal apprehension in encountering such men;
especially when my only present object was to ask for food.
The erecting of a mill denoted a decided demonstration, it is
true, and a little reflection might have told me that its occupants
would not be delighted by a sudden visit from the
representative of the owners of the soil. On the other
hand, however, the huts were long miles away, and neither
Sureflint nor I had the smallest article of food about us.
Both were hungry, though the Onondago professed indifference
to the feeling, an unconcern I could not share with him,
owing to habits of greater self-indulgence. Then I had a
strong wish to solve this mystery of the mill, in addition to
a feverish desire to awaken within me some new excitement,
as a counterpoise to that I still keenly felt in behalf of my
disappointed love.

Did I not so well understand the character of my companion,
and the great accuracy of Indian senses, I might
have hesitated about going on what seemed to be a fool's
errand. But circumstances, that were then of recent origin,
existed to give some countenance to the conjecture of
Sureflint, if conjecture his precise knowledge could be
called. Originally, New York claimed the Connecticut for
a part of its eastern boundary, but large bodies of settlers
had crossed that stream, coming mainly from the adjacent
colony of New Hampshire, and these persons had become
formidable by their positions and numbers, some time anterior
to the Revolution. During that struggle, these hardy
mountaineers had manifested a spirit favourable to the colonies,
in the main, though every indication of an intention to
settle their claims was met by a disposition to declare themselves
neutral. In a word, they were sufficiently patriotic,
if left to do as they pleased in the matter of their possessions,
but not sufficiently so to submit to the regular administration
of the law. About the close of the war, the leaders
of this self-created colony were more than suspected of

coquetting with the English authorities; not that they preferred
the government of the crown, or any other control, to
their own, but because the times were favourable to playing
off their neutrality, in this manner, as a means of securing
themselves in the possession of lands to which their titles, in
the ordinary way, admitted of a good deal of dispute, to say
the least. The difficulty was by no means disposed of by
the peace of '83; but the counties, that were then equally
known by the name of Vermont, and that of the Hampshire
Grants, were existing, in one sense, as a people apart, not
yet acknowledging the power of the confederacy; nor did
they come into the union, under the constitution of 1789,
until all around them had done so, and the last spark of
opposition to the new system had been extinguished.

It is a principle of moral, as well as of physical nature,
that like should produce like. The right ever vindicates
itself, in the process of events, and the sins of the fathers are
visited upon the children, even to the third and fourth generations,
in their melancholy consequences. It was impossible
that an example of such a wrong could be successfully
exhibited on a large scale, without producing its deluded
imitators, on another that was better suited to the rapacity
of individual longings. It is probable Vermont has sent out,
among us, two squatters, and otherwise lawless intruders on
our vacant lands, to one of any other of the adjoining States,
counting all in proportion to their whole numbers. I knew
that the county of Charlotte, as Washington was then called,
was peculiarly exposed to inroads of this nature; and did
not feel much surprise at this prospect of meeting with some
of the fruits of the seed that had been so profusely scattered
along the sides of the Green Mountains. Come what would,
however, I was determined to ascertain the facts, as soon
as possible, with the double purpose of satisfying both hunger
and curiosity. As for the Indian, he was passive,
yielding to my decision altogether as a matter of course.

“Since you think there is a mill, out here, west of us,
Sureflint,” I observed, after turning the matter over in my
mind, “I will go and search for it, if you will bear me
company. You think you can find it, I trust, knowing the
direction in which it stands?”

“Sartain—find him easy 'nough. Find stream first—

den find mill. Got ear—got eye—no hard to find him.
Hear saw 'fore great while.”

I acquiesced, and made a sign for my companion to proceed.
Susquesus was a man of action, and not of words;
and, in a minute, he was leading the way towards a spot
in the woods that looked as if it might contain the bed of
the stream that was known to exist somewhere near by,
since it was laid down on the map.

The sort of instinct possessed by the Trackless, enabled
him soon to find this little river. It was full of water, and
had a gentle current; a fact that the Indian immediately
interpreted into a sign that the mill must be above us, since
the dam would have checked the course of the water, had
we been above that. Turning up stream, then, my companion
moved on, with the same silent industry as he would
have trotted along the path that led to his own wigwam, had
he been near it.

We had not been on the banks of the stream five minutes,
before the Trackless came to a dead halt; like one who had
met an unexpected obstacle. I was soon at his side, curious
to know the motive of this delay.

“Soon see mill, now,” Susquesus said, in answer to an
inquiry of mine. “Board plenty—come down stream fast
as want him.”

Sure enough, boards were coming down, in the current
of the river, much faster than one who was interested in the
property would be apt to wish; unless, indeed, he felt certain
of obtaining his share of the amount of sales. These
boards were neither in rafts, nor in cribs; but they came
singly, or two or three laid together, as if some arrangement
had been made to arrest them below, before they
should reach any shoals, falls, or rapids. All this looked
surprisingly like a regular manufacture of lumber, with a
view to sales in the markets of the towns on the Hudson.
The little stream we were on, was a tributary of that noble
river, and, once in the latter, there would be no very material
physical obstacle to conveying the product of our hills
over the habitable globe.

“This really looks like trade, Sureflint,” I said, as soon
as certain that my eyes did not deceive me. “Where there
are boards made, men cannot be far off. Lumber, cut to

order, does not grow in the wilderness, though the material
of which it is made, may.”

“Mill make him. Know'd mill, when hear him. Talk
plain 'nough. Pale-face make mill, but red-man got ear to
hear wit'!”

This was all true enough; and it remained to ascertain
what was to come of it. I will acknowledge, that, when I
saw those tell-tale boards come floating down the winding,
little river, I felt a thrilling of the nerves, as if assured
the sight would be succeeded by some occurrence of importance
to myself. I knew that these lawless lumbermen
bore a bad name in the land, and that they were generally
regarded as a set of plunderers, who did not hesitate to
defend themselves and their habits, by such acts of violence
and fraud as they fancied their circumstances justified. It
is one evil of crime, where it penetrates masses, that numbers
are enabled to give it a gloss, and a seeming merit, that
unsettle principles; rendering the false true, in the eyes of
the ignorant, and generally placing evil before good. This is
one of the modes in which justice vindicates itself, under the
providence of God; the wrongs committed by communities
re-acting on themselves, in the shape of a demoralization
that soon brings its own merited punishment.

There was little time for speculation or conjecture, however;
for, resuming our march, the next bend in the river
brought into view a reach of the stream in which half a
dozen men and lads were at work in the water, placing the
boards in piles of two or three, and setting them in the current,
at points favourable to their floating downwards.
Booms, connected with chains, kept the confused pile in a
sort of basin beneath some low cliffs, on the margin of which
stood the expected mill itself. Here, then, was ocular proof
that squatters were systematically at work, plundering the
forests, of which I was in charge, of their most valuable
trees, and setting everything like law and right at defiance.
The circumstances called for great decision, united with the
utmost circumspection. I had gone so far, that pride would
not suffer me to retreat, had not a sense of duty to my father
and colonel Follock, come to increase the determination to
go on.

The reader may feel some desire to know how far Dus

mingled with my thoughts, all this time. She was never
absolutely out of them, though the repulse I had met in my
affections gaven an impetus to my feelings that rendered me
more than usually disposed to enter on an adventure of
hazard and wildness. If I were naught to Ursula Malbone,
it mattered little what else became of me. This was the
sentiment that was uppermost, and I have thought, ever
since, that Susquesus had some insight into the condition of
my feelings, and understood the cause of the sort of desperation
with which I was about to rush on danger. We
were, as yet, quite concealed, ourselves; and the Indian
profited by the circumstance, to hold a council, before we
trusted our persons in the hands of those who might feel it to
be their interest to make away with us, in preference to
permitting us ever to see our friends again. In doing this,
however, Sureflint was in no degree influenced by concern
for himself, but solely by a desire to act as became an
experienced warrior, on a very difficult war-path.

“S'pose you know,” said Sureflint. “'Em no good men
—Varmount squatter—you t'ink own land—dey tink own
land. Carry rifle and do as please. Best watch him.”

“I believe I understand you,” Susquesus, and I shall be
on my guard, accordingly. Did you ever see either of those
men before?”

“T'ink have. Must meet all sort of men, when he go
up and down in 'e wood. Despret squatter, dat ole man,
out yonder. Call himself T'ousandacre — say he alway
own t'ousand acre when he have mind to find him.”

“The gentleman must be well provided with estates! A
thousand acres will make a very pretty homestead for a
wanderer, especially when he has the privilege of carrying
it about with him, in his travels. You mean the man with
grey hairs, I suppose—he who is half dressed in buckskin?”

“Sartain; dat ole T'ousandacre — nebber want land—
take him where he find him. Born over by great salt lake,
he say, and been travel toward setting sun since a boy.
Alway help himself — Hampshire Grant man, dat. But,
Major, why he no got right, well as you?”

“Because our laws give him no right, while it gives to
the owner in fee, a perfect right. It is one of the conditions
of the society in which we live, that men shall respect each

other's property, and this is not his property, but mine—or,
rather, it is the property of my father and colonel Follock.”

“Best not say so, den. No need tell ebbery t'ing. No
your land, say no your land. If he t'ink you spy, p'raps
he shoot you, eh? Pale-face shoot spy; red man t'ink spy
good feller!”

“Spies can be shot only in time of war; but war or
peace, you do not think these men will push matters to extremities?
They will be afraid of the law.”

“Law!—What law to him?—Nebber see law—don't go
near law; don't know him.”

“Well, I shall run the risk, for hunger is quite as active
just now as curiosity and interest. There is no necessity,
however, for your exposing yourself, Sureflint; do you stay
behind, and wait for the result. If I am detained, you can
carry the news to Chainbearer, who will know where to
seek me. Stay you here, and let me go on alone—adieu.”

Sureflint was not to be dropped in this manner. He said
nothing, but the moment I began to move, he stepped quietly
into his accustomed place, in advance, and led the way
towards the party of squatters. There were four of these
men at work in the river, in addition to two stout lads
and the old leader, who, as I afterwards ascertained, was
very generally known by the sobriquet of Thousandacres.
The last remained on dry land, doubtless imagining that his
years, and his long services in the cause of lawlessness and
social disorganization, entitled him to this small advantage.
The evil one has his privileges, as well as the public.

The first intimation our hosts received of this unexpected
visit, came from the cracking of a dried stick on which I
had trodden. The Indian was not quicker to interpret and
observe that well-known sound, than the old squatter, who
turned his head like thought, and at once saw the Onondago
within a rod of the spot where he himself was standing. I
was close on the Indian's heels. At first, neither surprise
nor uneasiness was apparent in the countenance of Thousandacres.
He knew the Trackless, as he called Susquesus,
and, though this was the first visit of the Indian, at that
particular `location,' they had often met in a similar manner
before, and invariably with as little preliminary notice.
So far from any thing unpleasant appearing in the countenance

of the squatter, therefore, Susquesus was greeted with
a smile, in which a certain leering expression of cunning
was blended with that of welcome.

“So it 's only you, Trackless,” exclaimed ThousandAcres,
or, Thousandacres, as I shall, in future, spell the
name — “I didn't know but it might be a sheriff. Sitch
crittur's do get out into the woods, sometimes, you know;
though they don't always get back ag'in. How come you
to find us out, in this cunning spot, Onondago!”

“Hear mill, in night.—Saw got loud tongue. Hungry;
so come get somet'ing to eat.”

“Waal, you v'e done wisely, in that partic'lar, for we
never have been better off for vi't'als. Pigeons is as plenty
as land; and the law hasn't got to that pass, yet, as to
forbid a body from taking pigeons, even though it be in another
man's stubble. I must keep that saw better greased,
nights; though, I s'p'ose, a'ter all, 't was the cut of the
teeth you heard, and not the rubbing of the plate?”

“Hear him all—saw got loud voice, tell you.”

“Yes, there 's natur' in that. Come, we 'll take this
path, up to the house, and see what Miss Thousandacres can
do for you. Breakfast must be ready, by this time; and
you, and your fri'nd, behind you, there, is wilcome to what
we have, sitch as it is. Now, as we go along,” continued
the squatter, leading the way up the path he had mentioned
—“now, as we go along, you can tell me the news, Trackless.
This is a desp'rate quiet spot; and all the tidings we
get is brought back by the b'ys, when they come up stream,
from floating boards down into the river. A desp'rate sight
have we got on hand, and I hope to hear that matters be
going on so well, in Albany, that boards will bring suthin',
soon. It 's high time honest labour met with its reward.”

“Don't know—nebber sell board,” answered the Indian—
“nebber buy him. Don't care for board. Powder cheap,
now 'e war-path shut up. Dat good, s'pose you t'ink.”

“Waal, Trackless, I kear more for boards than for powder,
I must own; though powder 's useful, too. Yes, yes;
a useful thing is powder, in its way. Venison and bear's
meat are both healthy, cheap, food; and I have eaten catamount.
Powder can be used in many ways. Who is your
fri'nd, Trackless?”

“Ole young frien'—know his fader. Live in wood, now,
like us, this summer. Shoot deer like hunter.”

`He 's wilcome—he 's heartily wilcome! All 's wilcome
to these parts, but the landlord. You know me, Trackless
—you 're well acquainted with old Thousandacres; and few
words is best, among fri'nds of long standing. But, tell me,
Onondago; have you seen anything of the Chainbearer, and
his party of lawless surveyors, in the woods, this summer?
The b'ys brought up an account of his being at work, somewhere
near by, this season, and that he 's at his old tricks,
ag'in!”

“Sartain, see him. Ole frien', too, Chainbearer. Live
wit' him, afore old French war—like to live with him, when
can. Good man, Chainbearer, tell you, Thousandacres.
What trick he do, eh?”

The Indian spoke a little sternly, for he loved Andries too
well, to hear him disrespectfully named, without feeling
some sort of resentment. These men, however, were too
much accustomed to plain dealing in their ordinary discourse,
to take serious offence at trifles; and the amicable
sunshine of the dialogue received no serious interruption
from this passing cloud.

“What trick does Chainbearer do, Trackless,” answered
the squatter—“a mortal sight of tricks, with them plaguy
chains of his'n! If there warn't no chains and chainbearers,
there could be no surveyors; and, if there warn't no
surveyors, there could be no boundaries to farms but the
rifle; which is the best law-maker, and lawyer, too, that
man ever invented. The Indians want no surveyors,
Trackless?”

“S'pose he don't. It be bad to measure land, will own,”
answered the conscientious Susquesus, who would not deny
his own principles, even while he despised and condemned
the man who now asserted them. “Nebber see anyt'ing
good in measurin' land.”

“Ay, I know'd you was of the true Injin kidney!” exclaimed
Thousandacres, exultingly, “and that's it which
makes sich fri'nds of us squatters and you red-skins. But
Chainbearer is at work hard by, is he, Trackless?”

“Sartain. He measure General Littlepage farm out.
Who your landlord, eh?”

“Waal, I do s'pose it 's this same Littlepage, and a desp'rate
rogue all agree in callin' him.”

I started at hearing my honoured and honourable father
thus alluded to, and felt a strong disposition to resent the
injury; though a glance from the Indian's eye cautioned me
on the subject. I was then young, and had yet to learn that
men were seldom wronged without being calumniated. I
now know that this practice of circulating false reports of
landlords, most especially in relation to their titles, is very
general, taking its rise in the hostile positions that adventurers
are constantly assuming on their estates, in a country
as unsettled and migratory as our own, aided by the common
and vulgar passion of envy. Let a man travel through
New York, even at this day, and lend his ear to the language
of the discontented tavern-brawlers, and he would hardly
believe there was such a thing as a good title to an estate of
any magnitude within its borders, or a bad one to the farm
of any occupant in possession. There is among us a set of
declaimers, who come from a state of society in which little
distinction exists in either fortunes or social conditions, and
who are incapable of even seeing, much less of appreciating
the vast differences that are created by habits, opinions, and
education, but who reduce all moral discrepancies to dollars
and cents. These men invariably quarrel with all above
them, and, with them, to quarrel is to calumniate. Leaguing
with the disaffected, of whom there always must be some,
especially when men are compelled to pay their debts, one
of their first acts is to assail the title of the landlord, when
there happens to be one in their neighbourhood, by lying and
slandering. There seems to be no exception to the rule, the
practice being resorted to against the oldest as well as against
the most recently granted estates among us. The lie only
varies in particulars; it is equally used against the titles of
the old families of Van Rensselaer, Livingston, Beckman
Van Cortlandt, de Lancey, Schuyler, and others, as against
the hundred new names that have sprung up in what is
called the western counties, since the revolution. It is the
lie of the Father of Lies, who varies it to suit circumstances
and believers. “A desp'rate rogue,” all agree in calling the
man who owns land that they desire to possess themselves,

without being put to the unpleasant trouble of purchasing
and paying for it.

I so far commanded myself, however, as to make no retort
for the injustice done my upright, beloved, and noble-minded
father, but left his defence to the friendly feelings and sterling
honesty of Sureflint.

“Not so,” answered the Indian sternly. “Big lie—forked
tongue tell dat—know gen'ral—sarve wid him—know him.
Good warrior—honest man—dat lie. Tell him so to face.”

“Waal—wa-a-l—I don't know,” drawled out Mr. Thousandacres:
how those rascals will “wa-a-l” and “I don't
know,” when they are cornered in one of their traducing
tales, and are met face to face, as the Indian now met the
squatter! “Wa-a-l, wa-a-l, I don't know, and only repeat
what I have heern say. But, here we be at the cabin,
Trackless; and I see by the smoke that old Prudence and
her gals has been actyve this morning, and we shall soon get
suthin' comfortable for the stomach.”

Hereupon, Mr. Thousandacres stopped at a convenient
place by the side of the stream, and commenced washing
his face and hands; an operation that was now performed
for the first time that day.