 | The Shaker lovers, and other tales |  |
ETHAN ALLEN,
AND THE
LOST CHILDREN.
It is often less difficult, perhaps, to awaken the sympathy of
the reader by the portraying of fiction, than by the recital of
facts. And many a writer, we doubt not, who might have easily
produced a very thrilling fancy-sketch, has paused over incidents
of actual occurrence calculated to arouse the deepest emotions of
the heart, with a painful consciousness of his inability to present
them in such a manner, as should ensure the interest and effect,
which legitimately belong to them. Such, at all events, are our
feelings, as we take up our pen to describe an incident of the early
settlement, well known and often rehearsed, among the unwritten
stories of the times, by the inhabitants of that section of country
where it occurred. And if we can but succeed in writing up
to nature, or even exciting in the reader one moiety of the feeling
that agitated the bosoms of the actors in the scene as it transpired,
we shall not need a single touch from the hand of fancy to add
interest or pathos to our description.
In the afternoon of the last day of May, 1780, the wife of a
settler might have been seen sitting at her spinning-wheel at the
open door of her log cottage, situated in one of the secluded
vales of Sunderland, and interior town lying along the western
slope of the Green Mountains.—The day being quite warm and
pleasant, she had drawn out her wheel thither, that, while pursuing
the labors of the distaff, she might inhale the odorous breezes
of the season, and enjoy the wild but pleasing prospect presented
in the thousand slopes and swells of the far-stretching
gorgeous mantle of living green, brightly relieved and variegated,
at intervals, by the pure white of the blossoming shad-wood and
the varying hues of other flowering shrubs, which, at that season,
beautify the appearance, and make sweet the breath of the forest.
For deem not, ye book-made connoisseurs of the beautiful and
magnificent,—deem not the pleasures of taste exclusively your
own, because you can give learned names to your sensations.—
The humblest cottagers of our mountains, though they may not
be able to define their emotions in the exact terms of art, yet enjoy
the beauties of nature with as lively a relish as yourselves,
and are even more inclined, we have often thought, to view them
with that higher, holier feeling, which they ever should inspire—
that feeling, which causes the soul, as it contemplates, to send up
the incense of its silent adorations to Him, who made earth so
lovely for creatures who so dully appreciate the boon, constituting
as it does, one of the most striking of all his manifold blessings.
The woman we have introduced was not only a wife but a
mother; and, while she was seen occasionally to send a glance
of affection towards her hardy husband, bending over his hoe in
an adjoining field, her eyes, beaming with all a parent's tenderness
and pride, even still more often turned upon her children,
two sprightly little girls, of the ages of five and seven, who were
playing in the yard before her.
“Mother!” exclaimed the elder of the two girls, stopping
short in her gambols at the thought that seemed suddenly to have
struck her, “Mother, when I went yesterday with father along
side of the woods over yonder, I saw—O, such sights; and sights
of pretty flowers!—adder-tongues, violets, and all, which he
wouldn't let me have time to get—now mayn't we go there and
gather some?”
“I don't know about that, my child,”—good naturedly replied
the mother. “You are such a little romp, that if you once get
into the woods, you will be sure to run till you get lost, I fear,
and”—
“O, but we won't go into the woods, only a little, leetle ways,
Mother,” interrupted the child.
“And then,” resumed the anxious mother, without heeding
the interruption, “and then it is but a short distance to Roaring
Branch, where you might get drowned.—I had rather you would
go to your father, children.”
“Let us go into the woods and get the flowers first, and then
we'll go to father. We wont get lost, certain, certain—so now
do, mother?” persisted the litle pleader, looking up beseechingly
into the other's face.
The mother still shook her head, but with so kindly a smile
that the quick eye of the child saw that her purpose was won,
and joyously shouting “O we may!” she bounded away, followed
by her little sister, under the repeated but scarcely heard or heeded
cautions of the former, till an intervening swell hid them from
her sight.
As the eye of the mother rested fondly and proudly on the
receding forms of her children, she thought of what they were
to her then—her comfort and her care—of what they soon would
be to her;—not only a comfort, but an aid in lightening the
burdens and toils, so heavily imposed on her and her companion,
in their endeavors to subdue the wilderness and create within its
bosom a comfortable home. And as she thus turned to the future,
imagination began to be busy with her bright pictures of
coming prosperity and happiness; for in them, as usual, all the
sunshine of life was gathered and all its clouds forgotten. Beneath
her glowing pencil, the wilderness fast faded away; and in
place of the humble log tenement, a large and commodious mansion
rose to view, surrounded by smooth and fertile fields laden
with products, and green pastures filled with flocks, or embowered
with orchards bending with fruit; while she, the mistress of
all, with the companion of her early toils, now beyond the necessity
of labor, were reaping the rewards of all their privations
and hardships, in the enjoyment of the bounties by which they
were surrounded,—of the cheering presence of their children,
budding into life and attracting a pleasant social circle around
them—the respect of society at large—perhaps the honors of the
public, and every thing that could make their lives desirable, or
in any manner heighten the picture of the happy domicil thus
figured to her mind.
In reveries like these, in which many a poor first settler has
found his only reward for a life of hardship, hours glided away
unperceived by the entranced mother, till the descending sun,
beginning to dip behind the lofty mountains bounding the vale
to the north and west, caught her abstracted eye and brought her
back to the realities of life.
“My children! where are they?” was the first thought that
crossed her awakened mind, as she became aware of the lapse of
time since their departure. Suddenly stopping her wheel, she rose
hastily to her feet, and, after throwing a searching glance over the
field where her husband was still at work, she ran to the top of the
knoll,behind which they had disappeared. Here she paused and ran
her eye eagerly along the borders of the woods, bounding their
little opening on the east. But no children greeted her anxious
gaze. She then called loudly their names; but no sound responded
to her call, excepting a hallo from her husband, who demanded
the cause of her outcries.
“The children!” she almost shrieked in reply, “have you
seen the children?”
“No—I thought they were with you,” he answered, holding
his suspended hoe in his hands, while he listened to her brief and
hurried recital of the time and manner of their children's disappearance.
As she closed, the hoe dropped suddenly from his hands, and,
making his way with rapid strides, he, the next moment, stood
before her, when mutely exchanging with her a look of agonizing
intelligence, and, bidding her follow, with that almost savage
sternness, which startled affection will often force into the manner
of the most mild and gentle, they hurried forward to the
woods. Here taking different directions, they at first proceeded
along the borders of the forest around the whole clearing; and
then, penetrating farther within the woods, they repeated their
rounds, frequently pausing and calling aloud, but in vain, for
their lost children. After hunting an hour in this manner, the
now thoroughly alarmed parents met again at the spot where they
commenced their search.
“Run and raise the neighbors, wife,” said the husband in an
agitated voice, “and tell them to come quick—quick,” he added,
the fading of the last rays of the setting sun told him how little
of daylight remained for the search, he again plunged into the
forest.
Although the poor mother was already flushed with heat, and
nearly exhausted by her exertions, yet she rather flew than ran
to the house of the nearest neighbor, nearly a mile distant, and,
as soon as she could get breath to speak, made known her trouble,
the simple announcement of which was sufficient to arouse the
sympathizing inmates to immediate action in her behalf, by starting
off in different directions to spread the alarm through the settlement.
The instant she saw the hastily saddled horses mounted
by the messengers, and put under whip and spur on their destination,
she turned and sped back to her now desolate home,
thinking she would there rest till the expected help arrived;
when she herself would lead the way to the spot where the children
disappeared. But little was the rest which her troubled spirit
permitted her to enjoy. She would sit down for this purpose,
it is true; but the next moment, she would start up and run to
the door to look out, return, sit down, and rise again to repeat
the same motion; or, perhaps, she would run to her cupboard
and handle over the dishes, but only to replace them, and proceed
to something else to be as unconsciously begun and as quickly
relinquished.
In this manner did the distressed mother employ herself, till
the sudden trampling of horses' feet brought her to the door,
where she saw about a dozen men dismounting in the yard,
whose presence she greeted with a shout of almost frantic joy.
Among the new comers there was, fortunately, one whose well
known name was a host in every public gathering, when a united
effort was required to accomplish the object in view; for with a
full share of the more common qualities of skill and energy, he
possessed a remarkable faculty of inspiring in others that faith of
success by which, not unfrequently success can only be insured.
That man was the celebrated Colonel Ethan Allen, who to recruit
a constitution impaired by the fatigues of the camp and his long
captivity, had retired to a farm in this town, where he was then
an honored resident.
Allen now advanced to the bereaved mother, and, kindly saluting
her, enquired the particulars of the disappearance of her
little ones. She began to reply but with almost the first word
burst into tears: and pointing to her husband, who at that moment
was seen approaching from the woods, she dropped on to a
bench and covered her face with her hands.
“Be of good cheer, dear madam,” said the hero, deeply touched
at her grief. “Bear up with fortitude, and confide in us soon
to relieve you of your anxiety; for your children shall be found.
I pledge you the word of Ethan Allen, that I will return with
them or search till I die.”
After learning the desired particulars of the father, who now
came up, Allen held a brief consultation with those present, respecting
the manner of conducting the proposed search. And it
was soon settled, that every man should provide himself with a
pine knot torch for the night.—Such as could readily procure
horns or conk-shells were to take them to blow at intervals, for
the purpose of keeping the company in a line, or near together;
and, as nearly all came with guns, it was concluded to take them
along also; but no man was to discharge his piece, till the children
should be found, when two guns in quick succession, were
to be fired as the signal.
These brief arrangements being made, the company, now every
moment fast increasing by fresh arrivals, was put in motion by
Allen, who was unanimously chosen leader, and marched forward
to the border of the woods. Here they halted and lighted their
torches, it being by this time quite dark; when each man, having
taken his appointed station in a line, formed by placing the men
about a dozen yards apart, the whole, at the word of command
from their leader, entered the forest and began the anxious
search.
Man happily seems endued with the privilege and power of
deadening the sharpest stings of grief and anxiety by action; but
no such privilege—perhaps no such power, remains for woman.
The father of the lost ones, as deep as was his anguish, could
yet endure it in silence, while mingling in the active exertions of
the search. But O, what pen can describe the feelings of that
agonized mother, during the lingering hours of that dreadful
in to assist, and who would have gladly encouraged and comforted
her, yet she would listen to no words of comfort. But restlessly
moving about the room, and wringing her hands in tearless
wo, she ceased not to bewail her children, whom she sometimes
fancied in watery graves, and sometimes torn to pieces and devoured
by wild beasts. Hope, indeed, might occasionally come
to her relief, and her mind for a moment, be diverted from its
engrossing sorrow, as the sounds of horns, or the voices of the
men, shouting to their fellows in the woods, struck her ear, or
the gleaming of their torches caught her eye. But the embittering
thought would quickly return, and drive her to resume her
ceaseless rounds about her room, till compelled by utter exhaustion,
she would throw herself on to her bed, and perhaps fall
into a disturbed slumber, but only to start again the next moment,
with an exclamation of anguish at some fearful image, which
dreaming fancy had called up from the depth of her troubled
spirit.
Thus, with the poor mother passed this seemingly interminable
night,and the morning light so anxiously looked for by her,at length
made its appearance, but only to disclose the scattering groups
of the company returning from the woods, with slow and weary
steps, and the thoughtful and downcast manner, which plainly
told that their exertions had been unsuccessful. They returned
not, however, with the thought of relinquishing their object,
but only to refresh, and recruit themselves by a short respite for a
renewal of the search. And, after as many as the house could
supply had been furnished with food, and the messengers, despatched
to other houses for the purpose, had returned with supplies
for the rest, the company were again led back by their persevering
leader to recommence, in other, and yet unexplored
parts of the forest, the search for the lost ones, of whom not a
single trace had yet been discovered.
Another day of fruitless researches succeeded—another day
of torturing anxiety and suspense to the pitiable parents, now
giving away to despair, and now clinging to hope, but to a hope
continually growing weaker and weaker from the consciousness
that every hour lessened the probability that their children would
the country for more than twenty miles around had been alarmed,
and over six hundred men had by this time assembled and joined
in the search,—although miles of the dark and tangled forest
had been carefully explored by the company, proceeding, now
that their numbers were so increased, in a line at arms length
from each other, or always so near as to preclude the possibility
that the lost could be passed over unseen; yet no traces
of them had been seen—no clue discovered, which could lead to
any thing but the merest conjecture of their fate or present situation.
And so deeply impressed were a large proportion of the
company, before the close of this day, of the uselessness of any
further search for the children, who, as they generally believed,
must have been seized by the wolves or panthers, and borne off
to distant dens to be devoured, that they would have relinquished
the search and gone home, but for the constant and untiring
efforts of their indefatigable leader, who, passing continually from
one end of the line to the other,encouraged,exhorted,and implored
them to persevere, and entertain no thought of yielding, till the
children, whether living or dead should be found. And such were
his powers of controlling the multitude, and infusing into them
his own burning and confiding spirit, that their hesitation gave
way under his appeals, and in spite of fatigues, and the faintness
consequent on the scantiness of the supplies of food, which,
only could be brought to so many in the woods, they cheerfully
continued their unpromising toils, not only through the dreary
night that followed, but the greater part of the succeeding day;
though with no other result, than that of keeping alive, in the
meantime, in the bosoms of the distracted parents, the forlorn
hope, which arose from the knowledge that the search was not
yet relinquished. Perseverance, however, with a lessening prospect
of success, could not always be expected in a body of men
brought thus promiscuously together, and acting only from feelings
of sympathy, or the dictates of a common duty. And towards
night, on this, the third day of the search, small parties
began to steal away. And the example operating on the rest,
faint, weary, and despairing of success, the whole soon broke
from a line, and retiring from the woods, followed in silence by
disconsolate parents.
All seemed deeply impressed by the painful circumstances under
which they were now, for the last time, as they supposed,
assembled at this abode of unmitigated sorrow. Though no one
had announced that the search had been given up, yet all seemed
to understand that such was the fact. Even the beraved parents
seemed perfectly aware of the melancholy truth; for, differently
from what they had yet done, they now came out and took a seat
together, after the manner of mourners at the last rites of the
dead, on a bench near the door, in full view of the company,
and there sat drooping with that air of hopeless grief, which is
only assumed under the sad consciousness that all is over. The
silence of a funeral pervaded the whole assembled multitude,
who, seated on logs, and other objects, or lying in groups on the
grass about the yard, seemed silently mingling their sympathies
for the bereaved. And for nearly half of an hour, no movement
was made, and no loud word was spoken; when the singularly
gifted, and, to this day, even but imperfectly understood man,
who had acted as leader, and had now been standing aloof, with
a sad and troubled look, slowly mounted a large stump on one
side of the yard, and raising his towering form, and glancing
mournfully round over the assemblage, commanded attention:—
“Men,” he impressively began, “fellow-men, neighbors, parents,
all, hear me, for I can keep silent no longer; and, if I
should, it seems to me, to use the words of the good book, that
the very stones would cry out! I have been in battles, where the
dying and the dead lay thick around me. I have spent months in
the earthly hell of a British prison-ship, where despair and death,
in their most appalling forms, were daily before me; but they
all furnished no scene to wring the bosom with commisseration
like this. Look at that bereaved, heart-stricken pair!” he continued,
while the big tears began to roll down his cheeks, “why
are their bosoms thus heaving with convulsive sobs; and why
is dark despair settling on their countenances, which, till now,
have not been without the light of hope? Is it because their
children are dead? No! for they, as well as ourselves, must
know that it is yet quite too soon to settle down in that melancholy
they see, that we have come here to tell them,—as we
should, if we could find in our hearts to make the announcement,
to tell them, that we can search no longer for their children,—
that we are tired, and must go home to our business now, leaving
their unfortunate little ones to perish miserably in the woods!
Young men, who have often found strength to keep the woods a
week to hunt down some paltry wolf or bear, are you satisfied to
give up after a search of forty-eight hours, when two human
lives are at stake?—Men, who have been with me in the war,
and cheerfully undergone fatigues and hunger, a hundred fold
greater than those we have here experienced, are you also, willing
that your acts should tell the same story to this broken-hearted
pair, and to the world? And lastly, parents, O parents, can you
take this case home to your own bosoms,—can you look on this
distracted father and mother, and make their case your own, and
picture to yourselves, your own little ones lost in the woods, worn
out, weary and famishing, with no human face to cheer and encourage
them,—no human hand to minister to them,—trembling
with fear through the night, as the wild beasts howl around them,
and wailing out their little lives in grief and hunger. Can you do
this, and then coldly talk of relinquishing the search, and going
home? If you can,” he went on, with the tears now falling in
streams from his eyes, “go, go! and may the God of humanity
forgive you, and be merciful to you, when your own children in
turn, are lost and perishing in the wilderness! As for myself, I
am now about to return to the forest there, as I pledged myself
to these poor parents, at the outset, there to continue the search
till the lost are found, or life be worn out in the effort. But can
it be, friends and neighbors, to whom this is my last appeal, can
it be, that I am to go alone?
“No! never!” shouted a dozen voices from different parts of
the crowd.
“No! no, I will go! I shall go! we will all go with you, even
to the end of your vow, noble colonel!” responded one and all,
rushing forward with excited looks, and new resolution beaming
through the manly tears, which had bedewed every cheek of that
leader.
“God bless you for this, my friends!”—exclaimed Allen with
emotion, “Depend on't there's a Providence in this new born
faith and resolution. Those children are yet to be found; and
ah!” he continued, exultingly pointing to an ox-team, containing
several large baskets of provisions, which, driven by a boy, was
was seen turning into the yard. “Ah, here is already an omen of
our success, in these supplies so timely forwarded by our thoughtful
wives and daughters. Come, men, gather round it. Let each
furnish himself with a good ration, and we will be off again to
the woods; for we must bear in mind that an hour lost now
may be death to the objects of our search.”
The clouds of doubt and despondency having been thus dispelled,
and a complete revulsion of feeling effected by the tact
and rough eloquence of Allen, men forgot their fatigues, and
everything now proceeded with spirit and animation. The fresh
arrivals of provisions was hastily distributed; and all other preparations
being as speedily made, the lengthened column, headed
by the now exulting leader, was seen deploying along the borders
of the woods. Here they halted; and a brief consultation was
held among the most prominent of the company, which resulted
in the determination to push eastwardly, directly on to the mountains
beyond the limits of their previous explorations. A party
of four men, however, consisting of active and experienced
woodsmen, were detached to the left to proceed up Roaring
Branch, and follow it up to its sources in the ponds in the gorges
of the mountains, the upper part of the stream having been
hitherto left unexplored in the search, on accouut of the supposed
impossibility of the children having been able to penetrate so far
through the rocky steeps, and tangled passages which there environed
its banks.
This being done the company moved rapidly forward to the
foot of the mountains, beyond which the search had not, in this
direction, been extended. Here contracting their line so as to
bring each man in view of his fellow, they began slowly to ascend
peering under every log, or tree-top, in their way, which might
possibly conceal the lost ones.
In this manner about an hour had been spent, and nearly a
mile searched over without discovery, when the word was passed
by the leader, who had taken station and marched on the extreme
right, to “halt, dress the line, and rest.” And thankfully
indeed, was the order by this time received; for the men, now
the excitement recently kindled by their ardent leader had died
away, began to feel the effects of these superadded exertions;
and most of them immediately dropped down on to the nearest
rock, or moss banks, to catch what little rest their brief respite
might allow; while they amused themselves in looking off from
their elevated situation over the forest clad hills and dales, which,
broken only, by the apparenly small and thinly scattered openings
of the settlers, lay stretching in tranquil beauty beneath and
before them, till the scene was closed on the north and west by
the lofty mountains of Manchester, and the less elevated ridges
of Arlington, whose empurpled sides now met the eye in striking
contrast with the splendor which the setting sun was throwing
over their burnished summits. But though thus beguiled a short
time by the beauty and the novelty of the view here presented,
as they looked on the scenes behind; yet as they turned
to the rough steeps and deep abysses of the route before them
and thought of the toils of the coming night, many a heart again
desponded; and they wondered how they could have been induced
to re-commence the search with such spirit and hopeful
courage. Their sad anticipations, however, were fortunately not
to be realized; for while they were gloomily awaiting the expected
order to move forward, the whole line were suddenly roused by
the loud and startling report of one or more muskets, bursting
heavily from the gorge about a mile to the left, and in the direction
taken by the detached party, before mentioned. In an instant
every man was on his feet, with the unspoken question on
his lips,—“was that the first gun of the appointed signal?” And
the sharply whispered “hush! hark! list!” were the only sounds
with brightening eyes, and ears eagerly attent, all stood breathlessly
awaiting what they scarcely dared hope for, the completion
of the signal. But the next instant it came in another report from
the same spot, that sent its reverberating echoes down the gorges
towards them more distinctly than before.
“Found!” shouted the first man on the left; and “found!”
“found!” “found!” rang joyously swellling along the line from
man to man, till it ended in the stentorian shout of Ethan Allen,
who, leaping high from the ground, sent onward the exulting announcement,
“found! hallellujah to almighty God, the children
are found!”—in a voice that was heard, with a thrill of joy, even
to the distant abode of the hitherto despairing parents. The next
moment the wilderness shook with the answering discharge of
every gun in the company.
The children were now found it was evident; but how found?
Whether living or dead no one of the company here knew; and
few were willing to utter a loud conjecture, as, with common consent,
they all broke from their stations and hurried towards that
point in the woods, from which the signal had proceeded. But
leaving this exciting scene, we will now follow the small detached
party in the still more exciting adventures, which resulted in the
discovery just announced to the main company in the manner
we have described.
After passing rapidly over that part of their route which had
been previously examined in the search, this little party continued
to toil on through the tangled thickets and windfalls, or up
the wet and slippery declivities, which they every few yards encountered,
in following up the stream, till the increasing difficulties
of the way at length caused the leader of the party to doubt
the use or expediency of attempting to penetrate any further;—
and he proposed a halt, for the purpose of consulting his companions.
“Is there any possibility, Barlett,” he said, addressing the
man nearest to him, “that those children can have made their
way through such a place any further than this, or even so far, I
might as well have said?”
“I should think not, Captain Ball,” responded the person addressed,
he added, turning to the two remaining ones of the party.
“Why, I don't think it impossible,” replied Underwood, “that
they should get through these wind-falls; for children will creep
through smaller holes than we can; but the only question with
me has been, whether they would naturally have kept on far in
a course, where the ground is so ascending, even as this ravine—
much less up the steeps where the main party have gone.”
“Well, now, that is no great question with me,” remarked
Bingham, who was an old and observing hunter,—“I've always
noted, that all the brute creatures in the woods, when frightened
and confused by pursuit, invariably take up hill courses, and why
not frightened and confused children, who, in such case, could
have nothing but instinct and natural impulses to guide or govern
them. If you can tell me why lost and frightened brutes do
this, or why lost and frightened children shouldn't, when brutes
do, I should like to hear you?”
This odd theory led to some further discussion among the rest
of the party, during which the hunter walked on a short distance
to a large hemlock tree, standing near the stream, where some appearance
had attracted his attention; and having carefully examined
the spot, he called to his companions to approach.
“Here,” said he, pointing down between the branching roots
of the tree, as the others came up, “here I am quite sure something
bedded last night, which I hardly think could have been a
four-footed animal, as I can find no hairs in the place. The impression,
besure, is slight; for the leaves, at this time, are so dry
that nothing will leave one, not even foot-steps, else the children
could have been traced before this. But the appearance of
this spot, taken in connection with that freshly broken twig,
hanging there by the bark between here and the stream, as you
see, inclines me to think the children staid here last night.
“I am willing you should have faith, Bingham,” remarked
Captain Ball, after examining the appearances to which the other
had thus invited attention; “but if it is grounded only on these
uncertain circumstances, I fear it will avail us but little in our
object. However, we will examine the place to some distance
around, and if the children have really been here, we shall probably
discover indications of it, of a less doubtful character.”
The adjoining woods were searched over to a considerable extent;
but no additional indications were discovered. And the
party, all but the hunter, again began to talk of turning their
steps towards home; when the latter, who stood musing a little
aloof from the rest, suddenly called on them to be silent and
listen.”
“What did you think you heard, Bingham?” asked Ball, in a
lowered tone.
“I can hardly tell,” replied the hunter, in the same tone, as he
stood with an ear turned in the direction of the supposed sound,
“but if you were not so determined to beat me out of the belief
of all my own senses, should say something that sounded like the
faintish kind of a yelp, with which a wolf generally begins a call
for help,—if it was, it will soon be repeated, now hark!”
All listened in silence, and, in a moment, the long, savage
howl, peculiar to the animal just named, was indeed heard rising
distinctly on the breeze, from some spot up the ravine, perhaps
three quarters of a mile distant.
“A wolf, sure enough,” said Bartlett.
“Yes, and if the children have gone this way, it is as I feared,”
added the less experienced Underwood, with a sigh, “the wolves
have devoured them.”
“Not so fast, Mister,” interposed the hunter, “that howl may
mean something a little more encouraging. But be quiet, and
listen. I am expecting a chorus to that tune in a minute or
so.”
They all again stood mute, and listened with increasing interest
and anxiety;—when the same wild howl, louder and more earnest
than before, resounded through the forest. And the next
instant another howl was faintly heard, responding from a distant
part of the mountain. And another, and another, soon followed
from different directions and distances, till the whole wilderness
seemed vocal with their terrific music.
“The thing is settled,” said the hunter, hastily repriming his
gun. “The children are near that wolf which howled first,—
alive, too, or he would not have called for help. The pack that
have answered him, are most of them a mile or two off; but they
will come like the wind. And we must be there before them, or
who can,” he added, striking off like an arrow, in his projected
course.
“There is something in this, and in God's name, let us on,”
exclaimed the now thoroughly aroused Captain Ball, as followed
by his two remaining associates, he sprang forward after the
hunter.
All, by this time, seemed impressed with the conviction, tha
the issue of life or death to the children might now depend upon
their speed. And on they bounded from log to log, and hillock
to hillock, here gliding round an impassable jungle, and there
leaping over a fallen tree, or diving under it, with a celerity and
progress, which, in such a place, would have seemed incredible
to any but the trained woodsman. But as great as was their
speed, the hunter, who more than maintained his distance in advance,
soon began, by his beckoning gestures, to urge them to
greater exertions. Nor were they long at loss to perceive the
force of the silent but significant appeals thus made to them; for
the rapidly nearing sounds of the gathering wolves, and their
short, eager, yells, that told their close approach to the scented
prey, all made it evident that they were fast converging to the
point of this fearful rivalry between them and the woodsmen,
who thus incited, strained every nerve, and inwardly prayed for
new powers of speed, to reach the spot in season, but trembled
as they prayed, lest they should be one moment too late. A
happier return for their exertions, however, was now at hand:—
For suddenly the hunter stopped short, and, after peering a moment
through an intervening tree-top, down into a valley beyond,
he turned to his companions, and motioned them to come on
in silence. The next moment they were at his side, gazing down
on a scene that caused their hearts to jump into their mouths, and
tears to start in their eyes.
In an open space, about fifty yards in front of them, sat a large
wolf on his haunches headed from them, and towards his companions,
that were now plainly heard, making their way through
the surrounding thickets towards him;—while on a flat rock, near
the stream, a short distance to the left, stood the lost children,
amidst an imperfect bower, which they had constructed from the
timidly to the oldest, who was menacingly brandishing a small
stick towards the unheeding wolf, and with a look of mingled
fear and defiance, exclaiming:
“Shoo! shoo! go away, you great ugly dog! we are afraid
of you.”
With one glance over this exciting scene, every man instinctively
brought his cocked gun to his shoulder.
“Stay,” whispered the hunter, “more of the pack will be there
in a minute; and when they appear, I will give the word and
we will let drive together. It will then answer for the signal to
our friends, while we have the chance of giving to more of the
cowardly imps a different supper from what they are thinking
of.”
The next moment five or six gaunt, hungry looking wolves,
one after another, came galloping in to the open space occupied
by the one before described, which now rose, shook himself
slightly, and turned to lead the others to the promised repast.
“Here!” said the hunter, catch a quick aim—fire!”
With a single report, the four pieces sent their missiles of
death upon the devoted pack. And the sudden sounds of floundering
in the leaves, the sharp yelps, and the quickly retreating
footsteps, which instantly followed, told the death of one, the
wounding of others, and the rapid dispersion of the whole hideous
gang of these brute demons of the forest.
“Now for the children,” said Captain Ball, hurrying out from
behind the screening tree-top. “I will show myself to them
first, and alone, lest they be frightened; while the rest of you
see to the wolves, if any remain that want finishing,—and then
fire another gun to complete the signal.”
While this last injunction was being obeyed, as it almost instantly
was by the hunter, by discharging his quickly loaded
piece at a limping wolf, of which he caught a glimpse retreating
in the distance, the Captain advanced about half-way towards the
covert of the poor, terrified little girls, who, at the discharge of
the guns, had nestled down in one corner of their rude bower,
and there lay clasped together, and trembling in fear and dreadful
apprehensions,—less, however, of being devoured by the
of being seized by those who had fired the guns, and who were
imagined by them to be Indians, of whom they had heard so many
tales of terror. But on being quietly called by their approaching
friend, the eldest girl rose, and, after peering out at him a moment,
with a startled and doubtful air, timidly asked,
“Who be you all?”
“We are all friends, so don't be afraid, my little girl,” soothingly
answered Ball.
“Not Indians, certain?” persisted the former in a smarter
tone.
“O, no, we are your friends, as I said, and come to carry you
to your father and Mother,—will you go with us?”
“Yes, we will go with you, if you'll carry us to father and
mother, if you be Indians,” bravely replied she.
While the hunter was stripping off the skin of the slain wolf,
which, with a hunter's pride, he claimed as the victim of his own
shot, the others employed themselves in gaining the confidence
of the recovered children, and refreshing them by feeding them
with small portions of buscuits, first soaked in the stream. And
the former were so successful in winning upon the confiding
hearts of the latter, as soon to draw from them the childish, but
affecting little story of their sorrows and adventures, while lost
and wandering in the dark and dreary woods. How, when they
perceived they were lost, they cried and ran the way which they
thought was towards home, till it was quite dark;—when tired
with running and crying, they sunk down under a large tree, and
slept all night; how, the next day, they kept on in the same way,
sometimes finding juniper and patridge berries to eat, till they
reached about dark the second day, this place; when, making a
bed and covert of leaves and hemlock boughs on the rock, they
staid all night, during which the youngest was so sick and thirsty,
that they got up and taking hold of hands, crept down to
the water, drank and returned; and, finally, how they had been
here ever since, making their house better, and fearing to go
away, lest they should not find so good a place as this, where
they could find berries, and where they had seen nothing to scare
them, till the big dog came and lapped his mouth at them, and
kept him off till the guns killed him, and scared away the others
that began to come.
Having thus spent a short time in calming, and restoring, with
as much food as was deemed prudent, the frightened and famishing
children, the party was called together to depart; when
two of the men taking each a child in his arms, and the others
carrying the guns, and the hunter's wolf skin, the whole set forward
with quick, and animated steps, to retrace their way down
the gorge to the settlement, where they well knew, minutes
would now seem hours till they arrived.
If ever men felt proud and happy at success, it was this little
band of honest-hearted woodsmen. And as they strode homewards
through woods, with their living trophies, all unharmed
and gaily chatting in their arms, their bosoms, at the thought of
what they had achieved, together with the anticipated pleasure
of restoring the little ones to the arms of their parents,—their
grateful bosoms swelled with emotions of happiness more pure,
more elevated, more exquisite, than they would have experienced
had half the treasures of the earth been unexpectedly won by
them.
When about half way out to the clearing, they suddenly encountered
the ardent Ethan Allen, hurrying on, at the head of
the main body, to meet them. “Ah, ha!” exclaimed the hero,
throwing up his hand in joyful surprise, “here they are, alive and
well. Glory to God, it is indeed at last accomplished! And now,
my merry men,” he continued, turning to his followers, “gather
up, gather up here, and let every one give voice to his feelings,
by joining in a round of cheers which shall make these hills skip
like those described by the brave old David of the scriptures,—
there, halt, ready now!” he added, himself leading off in the “three
times three,” of such thundering cheers, as never before rose
from the wild glens of the Green Mountains!
The company, having thus given vent to their overflowing
feelings, were now formed into a sort of triumphal procession,
with the recovered children and their deliverers in front; when
through the remaining part of the woods, till they reached the
clearing; when as the long column began to emerge into the
open grounds, they were met by the anxious parents, who, having
heard the cheering we have described, and, for the first time,
found courage to leave the house with any expectation of meeting
their children alive, were now, with a company of sympathising
females, hastening on to receive them. But who can hope
adequately to describe that meeting, where tongues were mute,
and overcharged hearts only spoke in the dumb tokens of quivering
lips, and streaming eyes? The men who had found the
lost ones, and still bore them in their arms, had framed gallant
speeches for this occasion, but they were all forgotten now, and
the children were hurriedly passed to the eagerly extended arms
of the parents, and by them convulsively clasped to their bosoms
in silence. Even the iron nerved Allen, usually so free and bold
of speech, stood by and looked on without daring to trust his
voice in words. And, for some moments, not a single articulate
sound was heard among that touched and tearful group, till the
spell was broken by the simple exclamation of one of the wondering
children.
“Why, father and mother, what makes you cry so?”
“True, true, my little one,” said Allen, dashing away his tears,
and now finding the use of his tongue,—“here we are sure
enough, all crying like a pack of great boobies; when if any
company on earth had reason to rejoice and be merry, it is we.
Come, come, let us try to get our joy into a more natural channel,
and then move on to the house.” The head of the column was
again brought to order, and, passing on through the field, soon
entered the yard of that house whose recent sorrows were now to
give place to rejoicing and thankfulness. Here the company
were formed into two extended lines, a few feet apart, and facing
each other;—when the grateful and overjoyed parents, each
leading a child, that they might be seen by all, passed through
them, followed by Allen, alternately awakening, by his lively
sallies, and timely remarks, the mirth and good feeling of all
happiest hour of all his life. After this gratifying ceremony was
over, he once more mounted the stump, the rostrum of his former
successful appeal, and in behalf of the parents of the recovered
children, poured forth the warmest expressions of gratitude
to the company for their kindness, and long continued exertions,
and ended by an ejaculation of thanks to God for his mercy and
goodness in permitting those exertions to be rewarded with such
signal success.
The assembly then quietly dispersing, returned to their respective
homes, each proud of his own share in the achievement, but
prouder still of that of the distinguished leader, without whose
presence all felt conscious the affair must have terminated in sorrow
instead of rejoicing. And who shall say, great as the fame
of Ethan Allen is, for deeds of noble daring and brilliant exploit,
as a warrior,—who shall say, that his brightest laurel was not won,
after all, in that noble, though little known act of his life, which
resulted in the recovery of the “lost children” in the wilds of
Sunderland?
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