University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.

As had been predicted, William Livingston had been
appointed governor by the people's Colonial Legislature;
and at the moment when Skippie was admitted into his
cabinet the governor was inditing a letter to Charles, urging
him to make an excursion into the Indian country for
the purpose of ascertaining the intentions of the tribes
regarding the war with the mother country, which was now
waged in earnest; so that the visit of the young man to
the fondly-remembered scenes and friends of his youth was
to meet no impediment in that quarter.

And soon after Skippie's return the father of Charles
yielded a reluctant consent to the journey. Mr. Schooley,
whose discretion led him to adopt an obscure and inoffensive
position between the contending parties, but who could not
be induced to relinquish the idea of marrying his son
Richard to Julia, heartily approved the project. But
Julia's objections remained to be overcome. Charles met
her almost daily at the sycamore-tree, and was still beguiled
of many weeks which might have sufficed for performing
the journey.

Meantime, there were rumours of preparations on the part
of the Indians to attack the settlements. These accounts,
so far as it regarded the readiness of the Iroquois to commence
active hostilities immediately, were discredited by

Charles. He rightly attributed them to the instructions of
Moody and other tories, issued by the agents of the crown
as a means of keeping the people in continual alarm and
preventing them from sending succours to the American
army.

Nevertheless, it was a well-ascertained fact that several
small parties of roving savages had committed depredations
near the Gap and in the valleys on both sides of the Blue
Mountain. A number of horses had been stolen and one
or two men had been killed.

Poor Paddy was rendered very uncomfortable; and Mr.
Green related some new story of Indian warfare every
evening; and, at the conclusion of his horrible tales of
tomahawking and scalping, he never failed to predict that
such scenes would soon be re-enacted in that vicinity.

To such a degree had Paddy's imagination been wrought
upon, that he was often seen running across the garden
upon hearing any unusual noise. His mind seemed to be
filled with fears of snakes and Indians. One day, when
Mr. Schooley, Julia, and Charles were sitting in the hall,
where the hum of the small spinning-wheel and the bang
of the loom assailed their ears, they were startled by the
entrance of Rose, who, with dilated eyes, said Paddy was
mad—stark, staring mad—in the garden, and was then
dancing.

“Does thee say dancing?” asked Mr. Schooley, rising
indignantly; for any thing like dancing was an abomination
in his sight. He was followed by Julia and Charles and
the Newfoundland dog.

Sure enough, Paddy was seen springing about in every
direction, and sometimes leaping up perpendicularly; and
he seemed to be continually striking at something with a hoe.

“What hast thou there, Patrick?” asked Mr. Schooley.

“Och, yer honour, a hundred divils! It was the great
sarpint they tell of in the Apocalypse. It came out and
lifted its head and looked at me face, and so I struck him
across the back and cut him in two.”

“And then thee killed it, I suppose?”

“And would ye suppose it? Take that, ye blackguard!”
he continued, cutting at it again, and then jumping aside.
“Kilt him? Divil a bit, saving yer honour's prisence. But
what d'ye think he did when I cut him in two?”

“Thee must tell,” said Mr. Schooley, “for I never
guess.”

“Then see here, Miss Julia,” he said, as she approached;
“as I hope to save my sowl, when I cut the baste in two,
both ends began to run afther me! and when I cut them
in two, all four of 'em crawled toward me. And I kept
cutting till there was more than a dozen, and all from one!”

“It was a joint-snake,” said Charles, looking down at
the writhing particles of its body.

“Take care of his head!” cried Paddy, “for it won't
die, and can run when it's not longer than Miss Julia's
swate little toe. And it's a jint-snake ye call it? Well,
I niver seed the likes before.”

“Patrick,” said Mr. Schooley, “it was an unoffending
creature, and thee did wrong to molest it.”

“Then I'm sorra, yer honour; but I was jist thinking
of the bloody Indians, who they say will snake up behint
and strike ye on the back of yer head wid a hard iron
tomahawk. And—”

“Patrick,” said his master, “I see the cows in the
orchard, trampling the new-mown hay. Go and drive
them out.”

“And, Paddy,” said Charles, “keep a good lookout for
Indians.”

“Och, but you're joking now, Misther Charles, for I'm
sure you'd niver be guilty of saying sich things if you
thought any savages were about.”

Paddy set off in a brisk trot, while the rest, amused,
gazed after him. He had not gone more than fifty paces
before he stumbled against the teeth of a rake that had
been left lying on the ground. The handle flew up and
struck him a smart blow on the back of his head, and,
uttering a piercing cry, he fell forward on his face and
lay quite still. Supposing the man might be injured by
the blow, Charles and Mr. Schooley hastened to him, while
Julia followed at her leisure.

“What's the matter, Paddy?” asked Charles.

“Patrick,” said Mr. Schooley, deliberately, “art thou
suffering any pain?”

“Why don't you speak?” demanded Charles, endeavouring
to turn him over so that his face would be visible; and,
after several efforts, he succeeded.

“Murther! murther! murther!” cried Paddy, in such
stunning tones that even Richard, in the most distant field,
heard him distinctly, and paused in mid-furrow.

“Where art thou injured, Patrick?” asked Thomas; and
then added, since Paddy did not reply, “I saw thee receive
the blow, but did not think it could injure thy head.”

“St. Pater and the Howly Vargin!” cried Paddy, with
his eyes convulsively closed; “I'm dying, dying, dying!”
and the last utterance was the loudest.

“If you are dying, Paddy,” said Charles, “be kind
enough to tell us what killed you.”

“The Indians!” he yelled. “I've been tomahawked
and sculped! One of 'em was standing behint an apple-tree
and hit me on the back of me head! Then another
sculped me! Oh, the blackguards!”

“Nonsense!” said Charles, after a burst of hearty laughter,
in which Julia joined, and which could not be wholly
resisted by the sedate Thomas. “Do you not see we are
laughing at you? Open your eyes, man! We are not Indians.
It was a mistake—a dream.”

“A drame was it?” cried Paddy, sitting upright, and
opening his eyes. “But drames don't hurt,” he continued,
placing his hand against the wounded part. “Och, murther!
I'm sculped!” he cried again, upon beholding blood
on his hand. He fell back and closed his eyes once more.

Charles, upon examination, found he had received a
slight contusion, from which flowed a few drops of blood.

“Here, Paddy,” said he, “is the Indian. Open your
eyes and see him. He is our prisoner.”

“He is? And you've taken the blackguard? Why,
Mr. Charles, that is a rake!”

“It is the Indian that tomahawked and scalped you,
Paddy, for I saw him do it.”

“Saw the rake do it! And you mane to say, Mr. Charles,
that I hit the tathe with my fut, and the helve came up
and struck me behint? And I'm not kilt, then?” he continued,
rising to his feet.

“No, Patrick,” said Mr. Schooley, looking quite angry,
“and yet thee has alarmed the whole plantation. To-morrow,
and the next day, it will be the same thing. There is
no peace where thou art. Thee must leave—”

“Lave! Did your honour say lave?”

“Thee must leave such idle alarms to the women.”

“Yes, leave them to us, Paddy,” said Julia.

“And it's cowardice you'd be afther charging Patrick
Pence wid? Och, Mr. Thomas, if you could only saa me
blood up onct! Och, murther! look at that!” And Paddy
having pressed the back of his head again, a few more
drops of blood stained his hand. He did not lie down,
however, but resumed his work in the garden.

Months had now passed since Charles had promised to
visit his Indian foster-mother, and he still lingered in the
valley where dwelt his father and Julia. His father, having
at first given permission for the journey with great
reluctance, at length urged him to set out, since Governor
Livingston desired it and he had pledged his word to make
the visit.

Finally, the day of setting out was appointed a fortnight
in advance, and every preparation was made for the event.
Charles decided to resume his Indian dress; and, as Julia
superintended its completion, it may be presumed it was
not deficient in tasteful decoration.

Sergeant Murphy was to be left in charge of the company
which had been formed. The men had been assembled
several times for parade, armed with their own rifles, and
then dismissed to their houses. No orders came for them
to march away, and Governor Livingston had intimated
that it might be necessary for them to remain in their own
county. Richard Schooley had failed to muster; and his
father did not neglect to pay the fine which Murphy was
charged to collect.

Mrs. Van Wiggens's tavern and shop prospered very
well. Her husband, as he had feared, became a mere
cipher under the thumb of his tyrannical spouse. But,
about the time of the departure of Charles, he was recalled
to the plantation of his patron to act again in the capacity
of overseer, in the place of Peter Shaver, who had been
his successor in office, but who, becoming dissatisfied with
his Quaker employer, as it was supposed, or his wages, had
absconded. No one knew whither he had gone. The last
time he had been seen was when setting out one morning
on his crop-eared Indian pony with a bag of grain, which
he said he intended to have ground at a mill some miles
distant. His object was professedly to ascertain if the

Quaker miller they usually patronized had not been in the
habit of taking excessive toll. Peter was a short, fat man,
something like Van Wiggens, and hence was distinctly remembered
by all who had seen him. If he had not absconded,
the supposition was that he had been killed.

And so Van Wiggens was now relieved of the tonguelashings
of Mrs. Van Wiggens during the day, and was a
curious witness of the preparations made by Julia for the
decoration of the young chief, as Charles was often termed.
And more than once he took occasion to intimate that, if
Peter Shaver should return before the day appointed for
commencing the journey, he would rather go into the Indian
country with the White Eagle than return to his wife.
But Peter did not return.

At length the day of departure arrived. Charles had
taken leave of Julia under the sycamore-tree, decked in his
elegant Indian costume. His head-dress was surmounted
with white feathers; his buckskin coat, leggins, and moccasins,
were studded with beads and spangles, or stained porcupine-quills.
His embroidered blanket was folded carefully
and strapped behind the saddle, on which he sat with the
erectness and grace peculiar to the Indians and those who
have dwelt among them. He had his rifle, his tomahawk,
a dirk that McSwine had thrust into his belt, and—what
was shocking to some of the inhabitants—a scalping-knife.
These, with a few indispensable utensils for cooking, comprised
his equipment.

His aged father bestowed his blessing upon him, and, turning
sadly away, shut himself up with his books. Charles,
directing his steed toward the west, disappeared in the
forest, followed by the cheers of his friends and by the
light pursuing step of Skippie, the sandy-haired boy, of
whom it was said he never spoke with his tongue so much
as by his looks and features.