University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.

Harley.

It was about mid-summer in 1778, that the
united force of the tories and Indians arrived
at the most northern settlement in the
valley of Wyoming. This place was defended
by a garrison of about two hundred men,
stationed in a fort, called Wintermoot, from a
violent tory of that name, who had several
months before made it the object of an attack,
in which he was defeated. It was assailed
now by an overwhelming force of nearly sixteen
hundred tories and Indians, under the
command of Butler and Brandt. The tories,
who were commanded by Butler, formed the
largest portion of this army, their number being
about one thousand. The remainder consisted
of the Mohawk warriors, who owned
Brandt for their leader. On reaching the first
settlement of the whites, they halted in order
to perform some warlike ceremonies customary
with the native tribes, on such occasions.
The war-dance was accordingly performed,

and the war-song chanted. The former being
more grotesque than picturesque, would afford
no pleasure in the description; the latter, which
was wild in its structure and fierce in its sentiments,
ran something in the following strain.

After the excitement of the bloody exhortations
contained in these verses, it is not to be
supposed that much mercy would be shown to
the small garrison which was now attacked. The
brave Wyoming soldiers, however, sold their
lives dearly. Repeatedly did their well-aimed
discharges of musketry from behind their ramparts,
thin the ranks of the assailants and
stagger the enthusiasm of their approach. But
that enthusiasm, supported by the weight of
their numbers, carried them forward to the
gate of the ramparts, which soon gave way, and
a thousand balls followed the flying garrison
into their last refuge, a large log edifice inside
of the entrenchment. Nearly one half of these
brave men were slain; the rest surrendered at
discretion, but were soon laid prostrate in the

arms of death along side of their companions,
and two hundred scalps collected together that
evening in the tent of Brandt, formed the horrid
trophies on which that monster feasted his
fiendish imagination with intense delight.

“Eight hundred more!” cried he, addressing
himself to Butler, “and my revenge on Wyoming
shall be satisfied!”

“That will require the heads of nearly one-fourth
of the population of the district!” replied
his confederate in cruelty. “But no
matter, you shall be gratified. The full complement
shall, before many days, be meted out
to you. Your valour deserves even a richer
reward.”

“What richer can I obtain?” asked Brandt,
with fierce satisfaction gleaming in his burning
eyes. “In the assemblies of my tribe, I will
point to these trophies of my valour, and I
will say, `Mohawks, behold how I have dealt
with your enemies'—and they will answer,
`Brandt deserves to be our leader in war, for
he has overpowered the white men!”'

That evening, while the victors, wearied out
by their exertions during the fight, or their carousals
afterwards, were mostly sunk in slumber,
and the whole encampment had become hushed
in comparative silence, Brandt, whose exultation
of mind prevented him from sharing in

the general repose, and who was also desirous
to ascertain whether the sentinels were attentive
to their duty, wandered for some time
from station to station, indulging his delight in
the present triumph, and regaling his imagination
with the contemplation of others that he
believed were speedily approaching.

The evening was beautiful, and altogether
free from that sultriness which frequently characterizes
the evenings of July (for it was now
the beginning of that month) in Pennsylvania.
There was a magnificent serenity in the expansive
brightness of the starry heavens, the
majestic mildness of the modest moon, the sedateness
of the lofty hills, the solid plain on
which he trod, and the broad and quiet sheet
of the Susquehanna that lay basking in the
moonlight rays before him, that might have
inspired even a savage with the love of tranquillity
and peace. There was also inherent
in the sublime grandeur of the scene, a mysterious
power of impressing on the mind of
the beholder, holy and solemn feelings and
convictions relative to the great Author of all
things, which might have imparted a sensation
of humility even to the proud and stern
heart of the triumphant Brandt, and softened
his rugged temper, into, at least, a temporary
feeling of kindness and benevolence toward his

fellow men. But although he was impressed with
no feeling of this nature, he was not altogether
insensible to the beauty and blandness of the
scene. These induced him to wander some
distance from the fort, towards the bank of the
river, in order that he might have a more perfect
view of the silvery sheen of its broad bosom.
As he approached the river, but while
yet at some distance from it, he imagined that
he beheld the figure of a man moving slowly
amidst the trees near the bank. He advanced
cautiously, and with that stealthy pace which
the Indians, when requisite, can so readily
adopt, for he wished not to frighten away the
wanderer, whom he suspected to be a spy from
the whig party, endeavouring to reconnoitre
the state and position of his encampment. If so,
as he was armed with a tomahawk, he determined
to cut him down, and add one scalp more to
the number of the day's trophies. If indeed he
should be a white man, whether a spy or not,
unless he belonged to Butler's party, he resolved
that he should suffer the same fate. His quick
eye soon discerned that the stranger was clothed,
partly at least, in the Indian costume. This caused
him to hesitate in his murderous intention, and
he hailed the stranger in the Indian language.
The latter was startled. He had evidently not
hitherto observed the approach of Brandt. It
was now too late to avoid an interview, even
if he wished to do so, and he answered the
salutation in the same language.

Brandt now recognised the Hermit of the
Woods. By information received from Butler,
he knew that he had now in his power the
person whose interference had occasioned the
rescue of Miss Norwood and Miss Watson, and
the death of three of his party in the Hemlock
Glade. His first impulse was to sacrifice him
to his vengeance. But reflecting that he was
entirely in his power, he resolved to forbear,
until he should show him how he had excited
his resentment—for he knew that revenge is
never so complete as when its victim is made
conscious of his offence, and compelled by his
sufferings or his fears to deplore having committed
it. Indeed those who are epicures in
the indulgence of that most savage and hellish
of all passions, never wish the sufferings of
their victim to be too suddenly terminated by
his dissolution—for what gratification can vengeance
derive when consciousness is gone and
life extinct?—Besides, even before he received
the information of the Hermit's agency in the
transaction just mentioned, Brandt had partaken
of the general reverence which was felt
for the old man by the Mohawks, whose villages
of late years he had frequently visited,

and had to Brandt himself paid more than ordinary
attention. It is true, he had sometimes
wearied the stern savage by ineffectual attempts
to restrain his impetuous temper and soften
his ferocity. Brandt, although he disrelished
those harangues, and improved nothing by
them, could not but respect a man who took
so much trouble to do him a service. Some
sprinkling of this feeling, perhaps, on this occasion,
mingled with his resentment, and contributed
to produce the pause in his murderous
design, which we have mentioned.

“What brings thee here, old man,” said he,
“prowling, at midnight like a beast of prey, on
the skirts of a field of battle?”

“I come,” said the Hermit, “to this scene
of slaughter to discover if there is no wounded
being lying neglected in its vicinity, to whom I
may be of service.”

“Thou mayest save thyself such trouble,”
said Brandt. “Every thing human that, this
morning, inhabited yon fort, has been subjected
to the tomahawk.”

“Then indeed I can render them no service!”
ejaculated the Hermit. “Barbarous—
barbarous Brandt!—But cruel as thou art, thou
art even less so than he who bears the name of
a Christian—was born among Christians—was
educated in Christian principles—and yet has

assisted thee in this butchery upon his own
people.”

“Beware old man,” exclaimed Brandt, “or
thou mayest thyself become the victim of my
resentment. My vengeance is not yet satisfied
on the usurping race who have destroyed my
fathers, and robbed their children of their hunting
grounds!”

“Thy fathers!”—interrupted Rodolph—
“thy fathers were of the race on whom thou
seekest vengeance. Unnatural man, leave the
work of destroying white men to those who
have none of their blood in their veins! Thou
shouldst—”

“Hold!” shouted the savage with a loud and
fearful voice, “by Manetto, thou dost insult
me! Seest thou this tomahawk! Is that the
weapon of a white man? Seest thou the hand
that grasps it, the eye that directs it, and the
heart that dictates its use—Seest thou these?
Do they belong to a white man? No—no—
tremble—they belong to a Mohawk! One who
has sworn vengeance on all thy race; and who
grieves that his blood is tainted with theirs.
One who has sworn vengeance on thyself, for
thou hast done him an injury not to be forgiven
—thou hast caused the destruction of three of
his mother's kindred!”

“Brandt!” said the Hermit, in a fearless

tone that surprised the savage, “Brandt, what
meanest thou? Thy charge I comprehend not.
—But let me tell thee, I fear neither thy barbarous
weapon, thy blood-stained arm, thy ferocious
eye, nor thy savage heart. Weaponless
as I am, I dare defy thee. But explain thy
charge. What kindred of thy mother have I
destroyed?”

“One word will explain it,” said Brandt,
somewhat disconcerted by the manner of the
Hermit, “the Hemlock Glade!—All the people
of my tribe are the kindred of my mother!”

The Hermit now clearly comprehended the
charge; but he shrunk not from meeting it.
“Ha!” said he, “I might have been assured
that thy companion in atrocity would have informed
thee of that. I did my duty then. I
saved innocence from misery, and thee from
additional guilt. Yet I lifted not my hand
against thee. Dost thou wish that thou hadst
disgraced thy manhood by the murder of women?”

“They were our captives, old man,” said
Brandt; “what we should have done to them
would have been determined by our chiefs.
But the death of my companions must be
avenged. Thou wert the cause—thou must die!”

As Brandt prepared to strike, the Hermit,
starting back a few paces, drew himself up to a

greater height than usual, and assumed an air
and attitude of majesty that seemed for a time
to hold the savage spell-bound.

“Brandt, beware!” he exclaimed, “Heaven
looks upon thee!—No—no, thou darest not
strike to injure this time-worn frame. The
spirits that inhabit the orbs which shine above
us would see thee and shudder, for it would
be a deed of guilt surpassing whatever thou
hast yet committed. Return to thy camp, nor
pollute the earth with such a crime. Thou
knowest not whom thou wouldst slay.”

“Who art thou? strange man,” said Brandt
in a subdued tone. “Art thou not Rodolph of the
woods?”

“I am Rodolph of the woods,” replied the
Hermit; “and I am one whose fate is so closely
connected with thine, that if thou darest to
strike me, with the blow thou wilt seal thy
own perdition. The laws of the universe have
given me a control over thee from which thou
canst not escape, but of which, at present,
thou knowest nothing.”

“Thou speakest mysteries, old man!” returned
Brandt. “By Manetto, I do not believe
thy words. Thou wouldst mock me—thou
wouldst frighten me.—Ha! thou shalt not.—
What care I for thy fancied control. Vain
dreamer, thy silly device will not serve thee. I

must have revenge for my slaughtered friends—
and now thou diest!”

“I die not now. Heaven prevents thy wickedness!”
said the Hermit. Brandt replied not;
but uttered an imprecation which he intended
should be followed by the stroke of death. Immediately
his weapon was raised in air, but as
it descended, it was grasped firmly by an unseen
hand, and rendered powerless. The
Hermit then seized it, wrested it from him, and
flung it afar into the Susquehanna.

“Untameable savage!” he cried, “return to
thy companions, I command thee; and thank
Heaven that thou hast been prevented from
committing the most terrible of crimes.”

Brandt, awe-struck and yet enraged, was
about to answer, when an unknown voice exclaimed
“Obey!” and at the same instant, a
large pistol was presented to his breast by the
hand that had lately grasped him so firmly.
He instinctively started back, muttered a curse
upon his ill-fortune, and fled.

“It would be right to shoot him,” said the
person who held the pistol; and he was about
performing what he said, when the Hermit
prevented him by exclaiming—

“Oh! spare him! for my sake, spare him!”

“For your sake, then, let him go in safety,
this time,” said Joseph Jennings, for it was he

who had come so opportunely to the Hermit's
assistance. “But I fear,” added he, “that
we shall all have reason to repent this lenity.”

“Alas! I also fear it,” said the Hermit, sorrowfully;
“but, Joseph, you know my reasons.
I thank you for respecting my feelings, and for
your timely interference to-night. Let us trust
the future to the goodness of the Great Being,
whose hand has so evidently appeared in what
has just taken place. But we must now haste
from hence, lest the implacable Brandt return
to assail us with a force we shall not be able to
withstand.”

Joseph's small party of bush-rangers, as they
were called, were stationed in a valley about a
mile distant. Thither they bent their course,
and soon joined them.