University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.

He had a narrow escape—for the shore was lined with
canoes that had come in one by one with the tide, stealing
along in the shadow that lay upon the edge of the
water, and the woods were alive with wild men preparing
to lay an ambuscade. They were not quite ready
for the attack however, and so they lay still on both
sides of the narrow path he took, and suffered him to
ride away in safety when he was within the reach, not
only of their balls and arrows but of their knives. They
knew with whom they had to deal, and the issue proved
their sagacity, for when the poor fellow arrived at the
fort and related what he had seen, there was nobody to believe
the story but Burroughs, and he would not put much
faith in it, although he had reason to think well of the
man; for how were the savages to get across the Bay
in such a clear still night—with a sea like the sky, and
a sky like the air that men breathe in their boyhood or
when they are happy—without being discovered by the
boats? And how were they to approach from the woods,
without coming over a wide smooth level of water, seldom
deep enough to float a large canoe, nor ever shoal
enough to be forded without much risk on account of
the mud?

No attack followed for three nights and for three days,
and already the garrison were beginning to be weary of
the watch, and to murmur at the restraint he had imposed.
It grieved him to the soul to see their fright

passing off and their vigilance with it. I beseech you
said he, on the afternoon of the fourth day, toward
night-fall, as he saw them lying about under the trees,
and a full fourth of their number asleep in the rich warm
grass, with hardly a knife or a gun where it should be,
a pike or a powder-horn—I do beseech you to hear me.
You are in jeopardy, in great jeopardy—I know it; I
am sure of it—

So you said a week ago, answered one of the men,
stretching himself out, with a rude laugh, and resting
his chin on both hands, with his elbows fixed in the
turf.

Ah, you may laugh, Mark Smith, but I am satisfied of
what I say—the woods are much too still for the time o'
the year—

Fiddlestick, parson Burroughs! what a queer fish
you be, to be sure, added another. You are skeered
when there's nothin' at all to be skeered at—

So he is Billy Pray, and yet he aint afeard o' the old
One himself, when other folks air.

Skeered one day at a noise, and another day at no
noise at all—haw, haw, haw!

Do you see how the birds fly?

What birds?

The birds that come up from the shore—they fly as
if they were frightened—

Well, what if they do?

An' so I say, Mark Smith—what if they do? rolling
over in the grass and preparing for another nap—Who
cares how they fly? if they're frightened, haw, haw,
haw, that's their look out, I spose—haw, haw, haw.

I beseech you to be serious, men—we have heard no
shot fired for several days in that quarter, and yet you
see the birds fly as if they were hunted. Now, it is my
opinion that they are struck with arrows, and arrows

you know are made use of by people who are afraid to
make a noise when they kill their food—

Ha, ha, ha;—haw, haw, haw! gi' me you yit, parson
—haw, haw, haw!—what if they're under the shore—
can't they kill fish without makin' a noise? haw, haw,
haw!

Fish—fish—but no, I will not be angry with you Taber;
I dare not, much as you deserve it, for every thing
we have in the world is now at stake—everything. I
entreat you therefore, my friends—I implore you, instead
of laying by your arms, to double your guard this very
night; instead of sleeping, to watch more than ever—
I feel afraid of this deep tranquility—

Nonsense—double the watch now, when every thing
is quiet in the woods, and down by the beach, and not
a breath o' noise to be heard anywhere?

Yea—yea—for that very reason. Look you, David
Fisher—I know well what the Indians are, better than
you do now, and better than you ever will, I hope. I
have now done my duty. Do you yours—I have nothing
more to say; but I shall be prepared as I would have
you prepare, for the night which is now at hand. Our
foes are not on the water, Smith, nor nigh the water
now, or they might fish for their food without alarming
us. But whether you believe me or no, I say again that
they are not far from us, and that we shall find it so, to
our sorrow, if you do not keep a better look out for the
—there—there—do you see how that partridge
flies!—I tell you again and again, there's something
alive in that very wood now.

I dare say there is—haw, haw, haw!

And so I say, Mark Smith, hee, hee, hee—

It may be one o' the dogs—ha, ha, ha!—And they all
sprang up together with a jovial outcry, and began to
caper about in the grass,and call to a group that were at

work a little way off, to go with them and help scour
the wood, where the new Joshua thought there was
something alive.

You forget Mark Smith—dogs do not go into the
woods—stay, stay, I beseech you—don't be so foolhardy—try
to make one of the dogs go to the top of
that hill before you—nay, nay, Carver; nay, nay, and
you too, Clark—are you mad Sir?—you a lieutenant
of war, and the first of our men to play the fool.

Here you men, said Clark. Here you men, I say!—
Whose afeard among the whole boodle of you?

No answer.

Nobody's afeard—so I thought. Hourra then—hourra
for the king!

Hourra!—hourra!—hourra for the king!

Pooty well, that—pooty fair too—now le'me see you
hourra for the queen.

Hourra then—hourra!—hourra for the queen!

That's you, faith!

Hourra—hourra—hou—

No, no that's enough; a belly full o' hurrah is as
good's a feast now—hold up your heads.—How many is
there of you, all told?—Soh—soh—steady there, steady
—turn out your heels—

Turn out your toes you mean—haw, haw, hee!

No I don't—hee, hee, haw—give that up long ago.—
Now then! hold still there, hol' still I say, while I count
you off—one—two—three—darn your hide Matthew
Joy, aint there no hold still to you? Stan' still, I say;
—four, five—Out o' that snarl, there—one, two, three,
four!—very well, very well indeed, never see the wrigglars
do't half so well—clean as a whistle—soh, soh—
five an' five is ten, and five is fifteen—there now; you've
put me out—hold your gab, Sargeant Berry;—how am
I goin' to count off the men if you keep a jabberin' so?

—twenty-five—eight—nine—thirty, and two is thirty-four—now
look me right in the eye every one o' you.
Heads up—heels out—heels out I say—that's you Jake
Berry, you never stoop none, I see—heels out there,
every man of you, what are you afeard on?—You there
with the striped jacket on, what's your under jaw out
there for? you want to tumble over it, hey?—heads up
there, heads up—have your ears buttoned back, head
soaped and a bladder drawn over it hey?—Soh, soh!—
attention—very well—very well indeed—pooty fair—
now I'm goin' to give the word for you—

Wall....an' what's the word you're goin' to give....hey?

You be quiet our Jake, and you'll see....

How shall we know what to do, when you give the
word, if you don't tell us aforehand—I should like to
know that....

Shet your clam, Obadiah P. Joy—aint you ashamed
o' yourself; nice feller you for a sojer—aint he boys?

Well, fire away then.

Now you see, I'm goin' to say now or never, three
times....behave there! behave I say!...and when I've
said now or never the third time, off I go, you see!
right bang, slap dash into that are wood there, a top or
that air hill, and them that's good enough to carry guts
to a bear, they'll go with me. Soh....all ready now!

Ay, ay....ay, ay, Sir....ruther guess we be....

Now....or....never! said Clark, leaning forward with a
preparatory step, setting the breach of his heavy musket
in the turf, and driving home the ramrod, to prove the
weight of the charge. Now-or-never! cocking it, and
shaking the powder into the pan, with his eye on the
troop, all of whom stood with their left leg forward,
ready for the race....now-or-never! and off he started
before the words were fairly out of his mouth on the
heels of two or three who had started before.

Keep together, keep together! shouted Burroughs.
Whatever else you do, keep together!

But no, no....they would have their own way.

If the indians are there, added he....If they are!....as
he saw the whole thirty stretching away all out of breath
for a wood which crowned the top of the hill---If they
are! it is all up with us....and I am sorely afraid of that
narrow green lane there, with a brush-fence on the upper
side of it....Ha!—God forgive them for their folly
....Did you see that?

See what....I saw nothing....

Look....look....there's a glitter and a confused motion
there....can't you see it?....just where the sun strikes
on the verge of the hill among the high grass, where a
—my God....I thought so!

I can't see nothin'....the sun hurts my eyes; but as
for you, you can look right into the sun....Hullow....
where now?

To arms! to arms! cried the preacher, in a voice
that might have been heard a mile....away with you to
your post.

Away with you all, cried Burroughs.

What for?

To arms! to arms, I say, continued the preacher.

What for?

To legs more like....what for?

Away to the fort I beseech you (lowering his voice)
away with you, every man of you—you and your wives
and your little ones—you haven't a breath to lose now
....away with you.

Nation sieze the feller; what for?

Rattlesnakes an' toddy....what for!

What for—God of our fathers! O, ye men of little
faith!

Hourra for you! you're cracked I vow; pooty representative
o' Joshua.

Hear me....hear me....Have I not more experience
than you? Do I not know what I say?....can you not
believe me? what do you risk by doing as I desire;
....O, if you but knew as well as I do, what is nigh to us!

Wall what is night to us?

Death.

Death!

Ay....death....death....death....

Boo!

My friends....my dear friends....do, do be ruled by
me....there....there—did you see that?

See what?....you air cracked, I'll be darned if you
aint.

My God! my God! cried the preacher, looking about
in despair, and speaking as if he saw the savages
already at the work of death, hatchets and arrows on
every side of his path, and every clump of willow-trees
near breaking out with fire and smoke. Will you not be
persuaded....will you not give up?....see....see....Clark is
getting the foolish men together, and if we betake ourselves
to the refuge, there may be some hope of a—

What are they stoppin' for now, I wonder —.

Wait half a minute more young man, said the
preacher, and you will be satisfied—now—now!

As he spoke, the men halted and came together a few
yards from the top of the hill.

Out o' breath I guess?

Out of courage I fear —.

Hourra!—hourra!—shouted the men afar off, and the
shout came through the still air, and passed off to the
high sea, like a shout of triumph.

Hourra!—hourra!—answered all that were nigh
Burroughs, and all that were in the fort.

Hourra!—hourra!—hourra!—echoed the people, and
the shores and the rocks rung with their delirious outcry,
as the brave thirty dashed forward.

There they go—there they go—yelled a man from the
top of a tree just over the head of the preacher. There
they go—they are up to the fence now.

Are they indeed—are you sure—God be praised if
they are.

Sure!—that I be—there they go—there they go—
ha, ha, ha!—they're tumblin' over each other—ha, ha,
ha—there they go—I knowed there wasn't any thing
there—ha, ha—halloo!—hey—what—

Well Job, what's to pay now?—they're t'other side
o'the fence now, arn't they?

T'other side o'the fence!—no, indeed, not within a—
Lord God!—Mr. Burroughs!—Mr. Burroughs!

Well—what's the matter now?

Lord have mercy upon us! Lord have mercy upon
us!

You'll break your neck Job Hardy, if you're not
careful.

O Lord, O lord! what will become of my poor wife?

Ah, ha—now do you believe me?

Out broke the tremendous war-whoop of the Pequods,
with peal after peal of musketry, and before the
preacher could make himself heard in the uproar, two
or three white men appeared afar off, running for their
lives, and pursued by a score of savages. By and by,
another appeared—another and another—and after a
while five more—and these were all that had survived
the first discharge of the enemy.

You perceive now why the men tumbled about as they
did, when they got near the fence; they were struck
with a flight of level arrows that we couldn't see—ah!
you appear to have a—

O Mr. Burroughs, Mr. Burroughs—what shall we
do?

He made no answer—

O Sir—Sir—take pity upon us!

He stood as if the fear that he felt a moment before
was gone away forever, and with it all concern, all
hope, all care, all pity for the wretched people about him.

O God of Jacob—what shall we do!

Promise to obey me—

We will—we will—we do.

So you did, when I first came here—now you have
begun to scoff at your Joshua, as you call me.

O Sir—Sir—do not mock us, we entreat you!—
Here they come Sir, here they come! O speak to us
—do speak to us—what are we to do—

Choose me to lead you—

We will—we will—we do!

And with power—mark me—do you see this gun—
with leave to put a ball through the head of the first
man that refuses to obey me?

Yes—yes—any thing—any thing—

Very well—that's enough. And I swear to you before
God I'll do it. Now—hear what I have to say—
Silence!—not a word. Here Bradish—here—take
you twelve men out of these, and away with you to the
edge of the creek there, so as to cover the retreat of
your friends. Away with you.

Hourra—hourra!

Silence—off with you as if you were going, every
man to his own funeral—don't hurry—don't lose your
breath; you'll have occasion for it, I promise you, before
the work of this day is over—away with you, now;
and every man to a tree; when you hear the bell, make
your way to the fort, and if it please God, we'll whip
the enemy yet.

Off sprang the twelve without another word.

Here Fitch, here—I know you—you are a married
man—a father and a good father—take these eight who
are all fathers; and you Hobby, you take these—they
are all unmarried, and away with you to the willowhedge
yonder; you to the right, Fitch; and you to the
left, Hobby—and let us see who are the braver men,
the married or the unmarried.—Stop—stop—don't hurry;
if you are to make a fair job of it, you must go
coolly to work—

Off they started—

Stand by each other!—stick to your trees!—and load
and fire as fast as you can—that'll do—off with you—

You'll see to the women-folks, I hope—

Off with you, Sir.

Off we go—but I say!—(looking back over his
shoulder and bawling as he ran)—what are we to do
when we hear the bell?

Dodge your way in—tree by tree—man by man—

Hourra for you—hourra for Josh—hourra for Joshua!—

Before five minutes were over, the savages were in
check, the people reassured, the remnant of poor
Clark's party safe, and the whole force of the settlement
so judiciously distributed, that they were able to
maintain the fight, until their powder and ball were exhausted,
with more than treble their number; and after
it grew dark, to retire into the fort'with all their women,
their children, their aged and their sick. It was
no such place of security however as they thought; for
the Indians after they had fired the village and burnt
every house in it, finding the powder exhausted, laid
siege to the fort by undermining the walls and shooting
lighted arrows into the wood-work. From that moment
there was nothing to hope for; and the preacher who

knew that if the place were carried by assault, every living
creature within the four walls would be put to
death, and that there would be no escape for the women
or the babes, the aged or the sick, if they did not immediately
surrender, drew the principal man of the fort
aside (major Davis) and assuring him of what he foresaw
would be the issue, advised a capitulation.

A capitulation Sir, after the work of this day? said
the Major. What will become of you? you have killed
a chief and two or three warriors, and how can you hope
to be forgiven, if they once get you in their power.

Leave that to me—I know their language—I will try
to pass for one of the tribe—

But how—how—impossible, Sir.

Let me have my own way, I beseech you—leave me
to take care of myself....

No, Sir....we know our duty better.

Then, Sir, as I hope to see my God, I will go forth
alone to meet the savages, and offer myself up for the
chief that I have slain. Perhaps they may receive me
into their tribe....give me a blanket, will you....and perhaps
not....for the Pequod warrior is a terrible foe.

Here he shook his black hair loose, and parted it on
his forehead and twisted it into a club, and bound it up
hastily after the fashion of the tribe.

—And the faith which a Huron owes to the dead is
never violated....I pray you therefore—

—Stooping down and searching for a bit of brick, and
grinding it to dust with his heel—

I pray you therefore to let me go forth—

—Bedaubing his whole visage with it, before he lifted
his head—

You cannot save me, nor help me—

Shouldering up his blanket and grasping a short rifle.

What say you!—

Leaping to the turf parapet as he spoke, and preparing
to throw himself over.

God of our Fathers—cried the Major, Is it possible!
who are you?

A Mohawk! a Mohawk! shouted all that saw him
on the parapet; even those who beheld the transfiguration
were aghast with awe; they could hardly believe
their own eyes.

What say you!—one word is enough....will you give
up?

For the love of God, Mr. Burroughs! cried the Major,
putting forth his hand to catch at the blanket as it was
blown out by a strong breeze....I do pray you—

He was too late; for Burroughs bounded over with
a shout which appeared to be understood by the savages,
who received him with a tremendous war-whoop.
A shriek followed....a cry from the people within the fort
of—treachery!—treachery!—and after a moment or
two every-thing was quiet as the grave outside.

The garrison were still with fear—still as death....
Were they deserted or betrayed? Whither should they
fly?—What should they do? Their deliverer....where
was he? Their Joshua....what had become of him?

The attack was renewed after a few minutes with
tenfold fury, and the brave Major was driven to capitulate,
which he did to the Sieur Hertel, under a promise
that the survivors of the garrison should be safely conducted
to Saco, the next English fort, and that they and
their children, their aged and their sick should be treated
with humanity.

Alas for the faith of the red men! alas for the faith
of their white leaders! Before they saw the light of
another day, the treaty was trampled under foot by the
savages, and hardly a creature found within the four
walls of the fort was left alive. The work of butchery

—but no—no—I dare not undertake to describe the
horrible scene.

And Burroughs....What of Burroughs?—Did he escape
or die?....Neither. He was carried away captive
to the great lakes, and after much vicissitude, trial and
suffering which lasted for upwards of a year, came to
be an adopted Iroquois, and a voluntary hostage for the
faith of the white men of Massachusetts-Bay. From
this period we lose sight of him for a long while. It
would appear however that he grew fond of a savage
life, that his early affection for it sprang up anew, as he
approached the deep of the solitude, where all that he
saw and all that he heard, above or about him, or underneath
his feet, reminded him of his youth, of his parentage
and his bravery; that he began after a time to
cherish a hope—a magnificent hope, for a future coalition
of the red men of America; that he grew to be a
favorite with Big Bear, the great northern chief, who
went so far as to offer him a daughter in marriage; that
he had already begun to reflect seriously on the offer,
when the whites for whom he stood in pledge, were
guilty of something which he regarded as a breach of
trust—whereupon he bethought himself anew of a timid
girl—a mere child when he left her, and beautiful as
the day, who when the shadow of death was upon all
that he cared for, when he was a broken-hearted miserable
man without a hope on earth, pursued him with her
look of pity and sorrow, till, turn which way he would,
her eyes were forever before him, by night and by day.
It was not with a look of love that she pursued him—it
was rather a look of strange fear. And so, having
thought of Mary Elizabeth Dyer, till he was ready to
weep at the recollection of the days that were gone,
the days he had passed in prayer, and the love he had
met with among the white girls of the Bay, he arose,

and walked up to the Great northern chief, who but
for the treachery of the whites would have been his father,
and stood in the circle of death, and offered himself
up a sacrifice for the white countrymen of the child
that he knew—the lovely and the pure. But no—the
Big Bear would not have the blood of a brother.

You know the Big Bear, said he to the young
men of the Iroquois that were gathered about him.
Who is there alive to harm a cub of the Big Bear? I
am your chief—who is there alive to harm the child of
your chief? Behold my daughter?—who is there alive
to strike her sagamore? Warriors—look at him—He
is no longer a pale man—he is one of our tribe. He is
no longer the scourge of the Iroquois. The beloved of
our daughter—who is there alive to touch him in
wrath?

Here all the warriors of the tribe and all the chief men
of the tribe stood up; and but one of the whole drew
his arrow to the head—the signal of warfare.

White man—brother, said the Big Bear. Behold
these arrows! they are many and sharp, the arrows of
him that would slay thee, but few—but few brother—
and lo!—they are no more. Saying this, he struck
down the arrow of death, and lifted the hatchet and
shook it over the head of the stubborn warrior, who retreated
backward step by step, till he was beyond the
reach of the Big Bear.

Brother—would ye that we should have the boy
stripped and scourged? said the Big Bear, with all the
grave majesty for which he was remarkable. White
man—behold these arrows—they are dripping with
blood—they are sharp enough to cleave the beach tree.
White man—whither would you go? Feel the edge
of this knife. That blood is the blood of our brave, who
would not obey the law—this knife is the weapon of

death. Fear not—for the arrows and the knife are not
for the pale man—fear not—beloved of her in whom we
have put our hope. The arrows and the knife are not
for him—but for the dogs that pursue him. Speak!

I will, said Burroughs, going up to the resolute young
savage, who stood afar off, and setting his foot upon the
bare earth before him with all his might—I will. Big
Bear—father—I must go away. I found you in peace
—Let me leave you in peace. Your people and my people
are now at war. I cannot strike a brother in battle.
The white men are my brothers.

Big Bear made no reply.

Farewell....I must go away. I cannot be on either
side when Big Bear and Long-knife are at war.

Good.

I cannot have Pawteeda now. I have done.

Speak.

Wherefore?

Speak. Why not have Pawteeda now?

Pawteeda should be wife to some warrior, who, when
he goes forth to war, will strike every foe of his tribe,
without asking, as I should, who is he—and what is he?
As a white man, I will not war with white men. As
the adopted of the red men....with the blood of a red
man boiling in my heart, as the captive and nursling of
the brave Iroquois, I will not be the foe of a red man.

Good—

Let Pawteeda be wife to Silver-heels. He hath deserved
Pawteeda, and but for me, they would have been happy.

Good.

Here the youthful savage, whose arrow had been
struck aside by the Big Bear, lifted his head in surprise,
but he did not speak.

I beseech you father! let my beloved be his wife.

Good.

The youthful savage dropped his bow, threw off his
quiver, and plucking the ornamented hatchet from his
war-belt, after a tremendous though brief struggle, offered
the weapon of death to Burroughs, thereby acknowledging
that in some way or other he had injured
the pale man. Big Bear breathed fiercely and felt for
his knife, but Burroughs went up to the bold youth and
gave him his hand after the fashion of the whites, and
called him brother.

It shall be so, said the Big Bear. And from that day
the youth was indeed a brother to Burroughs, who being
satisfied that Pawteeda, if she married one of her own
people, would be happier than with a white man, left
her and the savages and the Big Bear and the woods
forever, and got back among the white people again, at
a period of universal dismay, just in time to see a poor
melancholy creature, whom his dear wife had loved years
and years before, on trial for witchcraft. He could
hardly believe his own ears. Nor could he persuade himself
that the preachers and elders, and grave authorities
of the land were serious, till he saw the wretched old
woman put to death before their faces.