University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.
A Night Scene.

For some time there was a dead silence among
the party. Paskingoe was moody, and Sybrandt,
seeing no traces of the Indians he expected to meet
at this spot, from time to time eyed him with looks of
suspicion. He could not help believing his designs
were at least questionable, nor disguise from himself
that he was entirely at the mercy of the Indians.

“My brother thinks I have two tongues and two
faces,” said the one-eyed chief at last, in a sarcastic
tone.

Sybrandt made no answer.

“The white man,” continued Paskingoe, raising
his voice, “does not know what to say; he is afraid
to speak out. If I tell him the Indians and the beavers
will come to-morrow, he will not believe me.
Why should I lie to him? Is he not a muskrat caught
in a trap?”

Sybrandt felt it was true; he was completely in the
power of the Indian. Hardly knowing what to say he
continued silent. The evening was now setting in, and
the storm continued. The wind roared through the
pines, the lightning flashed almost incessantly through
the windows, accompanied by loud, angry peals of
thunder, and now and then the crash of a fallen tree
gave token of a triumph of the angry elements. The
uproar without was strongly contrasted with the

silence within. Paskingoe sat in moody silence
smoking his pipe; Sybrandt was occupied in no very
pleasing reflections on his awkward situation; and
old Tjerck, from long experience of the Indian character,
saw that mischief was at work in the breast
of the one-eyed chief.

“Is not the white man and the black-white man
hungry?” at length he said. “Has he any thing
good in his canoe? Let him send for it, and we will
eat together.”

Sybrandt had no disinclination to this proposal,
and Tjerck was despatched with one of the Indians
to bring in some provisions from the canoe. While
they were gone the one-eye ordered his people to
kindle a fire, which they did with some difficulty, and
the room at length became illuminated with the red
glare of the pine knots that hissed in the chimney.
In a little while Tjerck and the Indian returned,
bringing the provisions which our voyagers had laid
in, together with two guns which had been left in the
canoe. The eye of Paskingoe flashed fire.

“Is the white man afraid of the bears and wolves
to-night?”

“I brought 'em for fear he get wet,” said old
Tjerck. As the one-eye placed his blind side towards
them, Tjerck dexterously handed Sybrandt a knife
which he had concealed under his homespun linen
frock, and which the young man as dexterously hid
in his bosom. The meal being now prepared, they
sat down to partake of it. After finishing, the one-eye
asked Sybrandt—

“Has the white man any fire-water in his canoe?”

“I have,” replied Sybrandt.

After a pause of some minutes, the chief asked—

“Is it good?”

“It is.”

Another pause ensued, which was again interrupted
by the chief.

“Has it never been to the spring? Our people
have been poisoned by the white man mixing too
much cold water with the fire-water.”

“It is very good,” answered Sybrandt; and another
pause ensued.

“When the white man comes among us,” said
the chief, “we offer the best we have. We don't
hide away our corn, and give him the husk. That is
what you white men call nigger.”

“No more nigger dan yourself?” muttered old
Tjerck.

“Some drink would be very good,” said One-eye.
“I am dry.”

Tjerck politely handed him a horn-cup of water,
which he dashed on the floor, while his countenance
began to exhibit keen anger and impatience.

“If the white man won't give, will he sell? The
Great Manitou has promised me some fire-water to-night.
I dreamed so last night.”

“You dream almost equal to Sir William Johnson,”
replied Sybrandt, smiling. Paskingoe shook his
head.

“No, no,” said he, “Sir William out-dreams me.
He dreamed away my best hunting-grounds; but I
only dreamed away his red coat. But will the white
man trade for some fire-water?”

Sybrandt felt the peculiar delicacy of his situation,
thus buried alone in the depths of the wild solitudes
of the Sacondaga. He knew the danger of declining,
as well as complying with the wishes of Paskingoe.
To refuse entirely would be to provoke his violence;
to give him a moderate portion of spirits would probably

only render him more eager for more, and
to afford the means of intoxication would be only
the prelude to violence and murder. During these
reflections, the anger and impatience of the whole
party became so evident, that he at length determined,
as the best alternative, to gratify them with a
small portion, in the remote hope that they would be
satisfied. He accordingly sent Tjerck for a bottle
which he had laid aside to treat the old man now
and then. Tjerck shook his head, and obeyed with
manifest unwillingness.

“It is good,” said One-eye, as he took a deep
draught, and handed it to the Indian next him. “It
is good, but the water is very shallow; the Indian
sees the bottom too easily.” And indeed, by the time
it had gone round the bottle was empty. Sufficient
had, however, been swallowed to waken the sleeping
demon that every drop of liquor conjures up in the
heart of an Indian. As it mounted into their brains
they became clamorous for more, and Sybrandt saw
that his life would fall a sacrifice to refusing any
longer. Accordingly a small keg was brought from
the canoe, and the Indians set in for a complete savage
debauch. In a little time their howlings and
shoutings almost overpowered the uproar of the elements
without, and their uncontrolled and uncontrollable
animal spirits found vent in grimaces, boastings,
and antics of mingled ferocity and buffoonery. Their
eyeballs glared, they danced, and sung, and flourished
their tomahawks and scalping-knives over the
head of Sybrandt, who stood in a corner, his right hand
in his bosom grasping his knife, in momentary expectation
that that deep and never-dying hatred the
Indian cherishes for the white man would precipitate
them into some act of violence against him. He

kept his eye steadily and fearlessly upon Paskingoe,
who was now half-mad, recounting, with violent gesticulations,
and tones of crack-brained, ferocious triumph,
the number of white men he had butchered,
of their wives and children he had scalped, of their
homes he had burned. He told how he had gone
alone by himself to a town of the Hurons, which he
entered at midnight, and murdered every soul in one
of the wigwams, after which he retired without leaving
any traces into the woods, and secreted himself.
The next night he came again, and murdered the
people of another wigwam, retiring as before into the
woods without being seen. The third night he was
watched, and pursued before he could achieve his
last triumph. But he related, amid the yelling triumphs
of his companions, how he escaped from his
enemies, and brought home with him twenty-seven
of their scalps.

“What white man could do this?” cried he, darting
his eye of malignant fire upon Sybrandt; “What
white man would dare do this, even if his limbs were
not like those of a woman? The white man is a
coward and a liar; he cheats us of our lands, and
builds forts upon them, from behind which he shoots
us down like dogs. He thinks he is our master, and
that we are his black negroes, who have nothing we
can call our own.” Then brandishing his tomahawk,
and dancing, and whirling himself round, yelling
at the same time in concert with his companions,
he again went on:—“The white man cannot stand
before the Indian unless there is two to one. I know
it—I—Paskingoe—I know it. At Cataragui I buried
this tomahawk in the sculls of two of the cowards
who were running away like deer. At Hoshelega
I drank the blood of three bragging cowards; it

was pale and cold like that of a fish. At the great
water of Ontario I tore out their hearts, and every
where I go I drag their scalps smoking from their
quivering brains, and spit upon them, and grind
them under the soles of my feet. They could never
look me in the face, and so the cowards tried to escape
the fire of my eyes by putting them out. But
they shall know me better with one eye than they did
with two. Ten scalps have paid for one of my eyes,
and ten more shall be paid before I sleep with my
fathers.”

Gradually excited by the liquor and the stories of
these bloody exploits, the Indians and their chief became
raving mad. They quarrelled and struck at
each other with their knives, and thirsted for blood
with the instinct of beasts of prey maddened by lust
or hunger. At length the One-eye shouted—

“Are we fools? Blood must be shed to-night,
but not the blood of the Indian. The Great Spirit has
sent the white man here to atone for the wrongs of
his people. Let him die!”

“Let us drink his blood!”—“Let us scorch his
brain with red-hot coals!”—“Let us tear out his
heart!” shouted the yelling fiends, as they brandished
their weapons and came towards Sybrandt with
foaming mouths and eyes darting fire. At this moment
the soul of the young man bowed to the supremacy
of these accumulating horrors; but it sunk only
for a moment, and regained its level again. There
was no chance of retreat, and the very hopelessness
of escape nerved him to a cool and wary exertion of
his means of defence. He grasped his secret knife,
and looked round for his trusty Tjerck, whose dusky
form he saw at the moment vanishing out of one of
the windows on the opposite side of the room. Thus

left alone, he nerved himself for what might follow.
The Indians, with all their hardihood and daring, are
chary of their lives; although when it comes to the
point, no people of the earth die so coolly. But the
point of honour is to achieve their object with as little
loss as possible. They therefore advanced warily
upon Sybrandt, who stood as warily on the defence.
They approached—their knives and tomahawks were
raised to strike, and he was just about to spring upon
the one-eyed chief, when a loud, long war-whoop
was heard apparently close under the window, quavering
amid the pauses of the storm.

“Hush! 'tis the war-cry of the Adirondocks,”
said Paskingoe.

The Indians suspended their purpose, and listened
with breathless anxiety. Nothing was heard but
the falling rain, the roaring of the forest, and the
rattling thunder.

“The Adirondocks dare not come here; they
are women,” said the One-eye, contemptuously.
Again they resumed their bloody purpose, and
again the shrill war-whoop sounded amid the uproar
without, and checked them for a moment.
Sybrandt thought of retreating; but the single door
was barred by the Indians, who stood for a few
minutes expecting an attack from without.

“Let us die like warriors,” said Paskingoe, and
took another drink. His example was followed
by the others, and the renewed draught added fury
to their mad, malignant passions.

“The white man is a traitor,” they cried. “He
has brought the Adirondocks upon us;” and the
One-eye aimed a blow with his tomahawk that Sybrandt
could not parry. He warded it from his
head, but it fell on his left arm, and disabled it

entirely. In dealing this blow, however, Paskingoe,
being somewhat unsteady with the liquor he had
drunk, stumbled forward, and met the weapon of
Sybrandt, which entered his bosom. He fell upon
the floor, and the rage of his party became still
more intense. They yelled like tortured fiends;
and, notwithstanding the cool determination of our
hero, a few moments must have decided his fate,
when, just at the instant that death hovered over him—
at the very crisis when their tomahawks and knives
were about to let out his life-blood—the door of the
fishing-house was violently burst open, and a tall, majestic
white man in a hunting dress rushed into the
room, followed by half a dozen people. The arms
of the Indians, the moment they saw him, were
arrested, and their weapons remained suspended
above their heads.