University of Virginia Library

22. CHAPTER XXII.

“See the poor fawn!” said Julia, pointing to a bleeding
young deer that lay in their path.

“Poor creature!” said Kate; “some cruel man has done
this merely to test his skill!”

“It's fat,” said Richard, feeling the ribs of the dying
animal.

“And would you be so cruel as to eat the pretty thing?”
asked Kate.

“It is better than a pig, and I'm very fond of them.
Thee would like it, I'm sure.”

“Never! I would not taste the flesh of that poor—”

“Richard,” said Julia, gazing at the arrow which pierced
the fawn, “leave it! Do you not see it is wounded by an
arrow? It may not have run a mile since the shaft was
winged at its side, and its bloody trail may be followed by
the Indian that wounded it!”

Neither Kate nor Richard had thought of that; and,
abandoning the fawn, the party lost no time in reaching
Tower Rock—the name bestowed on the abode of the aged
exile.

Richard, declining the invitation to tarry, bade the girls,
and particularly Julia, a doleful farewell. And Kate, when
she extended her hand in parting, archly imitated the desponding
gestures of the sighing lover. Richard departed
bewildered and bewitched; for the girls, when mischievously
inclined, certainly do possess the power of enchanting inexperienced
swains.

Poor Richard, ruminating as he retraced the solitary
path, sad and deserted, since the tiny feet of the dear
charmers had abandoned it, forgot the dying fawn and all
other shafts but Cupid's.

Thus enraptured, he paused in the densest part of the

forest before a large beech-tree, on the rind of which he
distinguished something among the many marks that resembled
a J. Supposing it might be the initial of his lady-love,
he stepped forward and kissed it. It had been meant,
however, for a horseshoe, to indicate that some one, probably
an Indian, had gone in a certain direction on horseback.
And feeling, for the first time in his life, quite
poetical, he drew forth his knife and carved some verses
on the tree.

After finishing the inscription, and when turning mournfully
away, he was confronted by the leader of the Senecas.

“How do?” said the Indian, advancing, and laying his
hand on the shoulder of the astonished youth.

“Thee knows my father—” began Richard.

“No. Don't know him! What's that?” he demanded,
pointing at the inscription. It was a famous writing or
picture tree, which had been used by the savages for many
generations. They could interpret the marks made by
themselves, but those cut by Richard were wholly unintelligible.

“Thee cannot understand it,” said Richard.

“Read—say!” continued the Indian.

Richard obeyed.

“Julia! Antelope!” said the Indian. “He love!”
Then, uttering something aloud in his own language, the
rest of the savages rose up from the tangled bushes, or
emerged from behind the trees, and came forward laughing
heartily at the interpretation of the inscription given
by their leader.

“Thee knows my secret now,” said Richard; “and thee
will not take her away again.”

“Antelope must go! Queen Esther calls her.”

“I tell thee no. She shall not go.”

“She nice squaw. Make me wife.”

“Thee a wife!” said the indignant Richard. “If thee
harms her, or takes her away again, Sir William Howe
shall be informed of it, and he will have thee scourged.”

The Indian sneered at the threat; still, he could not forget
that Sir William was the King's great General. But
he was far away, and dead men could tell no tales. And
yet he felt some hesitation in putting to death those who
professed loyalty to the King, and moreover the proverbially

peaceful Quakers. Nevertheless, as he paused in
doubt, his anxiety to procure scalps—for which the Indians
received a certain price from the British—almost induced
him to sink his tomahawk into the unoffending head of his
sighing captive. But, recollecting the enterprise was to be
mainly under the direction of Bonnel Moody, who, with
his band of Tories, had appointed the beech-tree as the
place of meeting, he reluctantly desisted. Richard's hands
were bound behind him, and he had no assurance of escaping
death at the stake.

A rustling was heard in the vicinity, and soon after
voices were distinguished. The Indians concealed themselves,
commanding Richard to be silent.

The stragglers drew near, following the narrow path.

“Thee must be lost, Patrick!” said Mr. Schooley, weary,
and with torn garments, supporting his wife.

“Be me sowl, I shouldn't wondher!” said Paddy, leading
the way, and now in full view of the hidden Indians.

“Thee don't know it, though,” said Mary. “Thee has
been to the fort twice, and thee should have learned the
way better. I pray thee, Thomas, let me rest a few
minutes on this fallen tree.”

“Thee shall be gratified, Mary. Patrick,” he continued,
when Mrs. Schooley paused, “thee said thee was quite sure
the path we started in was the right one.”

“Yis, yer honour, I'll be sworn we started right.”

“Swear not at all,” said Mary. “Thee knows it is
wrong.”

“Yis, ma'am. But I could take me oath I thought it
the right one.”

“I hope thee was not mistaken, and that we may be still
in the proper path,” said Thomas.

“And we may soon be there,” said Mary. “Lead on;
I can walk a little farther.”

“It's no use!” said Paddy. “I know we're lost, yer
honour. I know it by the queer fayling I have in me
head. And, be that same token, we shall be saised by the
blackguard savages.”

“Thee had best be silent, Patrick,” said Mr. Schooley.

“I will, yer honour. But, as I was remarking a while
ago, if the Indians should saise us, I hope it will be no

harm for me to pass for a Quaker, if it be the manes of
saving me life.”

“Use no deception, Patrick,” said Mrs. Schooley, “even
for the sake of saving thy life.”

“But, thin, yer honour,” continued Paddy, appealing to
Mr. Schooley, “I'm about to be in arnest. If it will save
me life, divil take me if Paddy himself don't be as thrue
and sinsare a Quaker as iver drew the breath of life.”

“Thee can neither deceive us nor God,” said Mrs.
Schooley.

“Desaving, is it? I wud scorn to desave onybody but
a blackguard savage, and I hope there'd be no harm in
that. But I'll go to yer matings, wear yer coats, and
spake in thaas and thous, and be as vartuous as ony saint,
if it'll kape the sculp on the top o' me crown.”

“Thee has yet to learn that our religion is not meant to
save our lives, but our souls,” said Mr. Schooley.

“And is that same the thruth? Och! I thought you
wuddn't fight for fear o' gitting kilt! But—murther!
I saa an Indian! Remimber, I'm a Quaker, onyhow!”

The Seneca chief, rising up, advanced toward them, followed
by the rest, who surrounded the weary fugitives.
They made no resistance.

“Thee is the same person we saw this morning,” said
Thomas, gazing at the chief.

“Oh, father!” said Richard, stumbling forward, “is it
thee and my mother I behold?”

“Yea, verily, Richard!” said Mrs. Schooley. “And
why didst thou wander so far away from thy home and
leave thy parents to shift for themselves?”

“So far, mother? It is not far. This is the path leading
from our house to the Tower Rock. Thee is now
almost in sight of thy home.”

“Verily it is true!” said Thomas. “I know that tree.
It is on my land. Thee has been leading us a strange
wild-goose chase, Patrick—”

“Plase yer honour,” said Paddy, “don't use me name in
this company. Thee knows I have been lading meself as
well as thee in the wrong way. Yea, verily! Heigh-ho!
And you, Misther Indian, tell me thy first name, and I
will call thee afther the manner of our paceable paple, who
fear God and honour the King, and—”

“Cease! cease thy silly jargon, Patrick!”

“Plase yer honour, don't call me Patrick,” whispered
Paddy, “because the natives hate the Irish worse than the
divil!”

“But, Richard,” said his mother, “why have they bound
thee?”

“Thee sees I am their prisoner, and will bear witness
against them.”

The chief uttered some commands to his followers, when
Mr. and Mrs. Schooley, and the quaking Paddy, were all
seized and bound.

“Divil a bit more will I be a Quaker,” said Paddy,
“for they saize thim as well as other folks! And
now—”

“Peace, Patrick,” said Thomas, “and learn resignation
from us. They have bound and plundered us, and yet we
do not complain. We are sustained by a supporting principle
within, and thee—”

“Och, now, Misther Schooley, none of yer praiching to
me. It's too late. They know me; for one of 'em was in
the battle on the Scioto, and at the fort, and he can't forgit
Paddy. It won't do to stay here. I must escape. They
won't hurt you, when all yer money's gone. But whiles
they're dividing yer goold I'll git off.”

They were truly at that moment in a dispute about the
treasure. The sum found on Thomas and Mary was unexpectedly
large, and it had been the weight of the money
which produced the exhaustion of the latter.

Paddy, therefore, bursting asunder the cords, slipped
away unobserved.

“Be jabers, I'm fraa agin!” said he, pausing and listening,
after creeping some distance and finding himself
not pursued. “And I mane to stay fraa. Divil take the
Quakers! I thought the blackguards wuddn't handle the
nasty craters! But they've bound 'em like pigs for a fair.
The blissed Catholic religion is the best afther all, both for
this world and the nixt! When I confess agin, I'll promise
niver, niver to desart the pope!” And Paddy fell
down on his knees and repeated a prayer. “Och, murther!”
cried he, springing up again. “And I've been
knaling beside a big rattlesnake! Jist hear what a fuss
he makes! And there he is, kyled up, wid his head and

tail in the middle o' him. I'll kill the divil! No!” he
continued, pausing, with a stone suspended in the air;
“it may be the divil himself, come agin in the form of a
sarpent. And kin Paddy kill the divil? Divil the bit!
The praist'll say he was afther me for turning Quaker.
Och, howly Saint Pater, forgive me! Good-by, Misther
Divil, I'll lave ye, and I hope your nasty riverence won't
follow afther me. I don't desire yer company, and I'm
sure ye'll have yer hands full o' the Quakers.”

So Paddy left the huge rattlesnake, which, as is sometimes
the case, neither advanced nor retreated from the
ground it occupied. But the fugitive had become confused,
and knew not whether to direct his steps, and trembled lest
he should again fall into the hands of the Indians. He
recollected with regret and dismay the many tales he had
told of the terrible slaughter he had made in the numerous
battles he had fought, and was frightened at the conviction
that his fame had spread throughout the wilderness, like
that of Boone and Kenton and McSwine.

Meantime the contention over the treasure rose to such
a pitch that knives were unsheathed, tomahawks brandished,
and no doubt the disputants would have proceeded to blows,
(such being the evil consequence of a lust for wealth,) had
not Moody and his band of Tories arrived upon the ground
in time to prevent the catastrophe.

The Tories being more numerous than the Indians, and
the latter having been directed by Queen Esther to obey
the commands of the royalist, Moody cut short the disputation
by seizing the money himself, promising, however,
to make an equitable division at his cave.

“And now, friend Schooley,” continued Moody, “why
are your hands tied in that manner? Did Murphy's men
do it?”

“Thee knows, Bonnel, that Timothy is away with his
company, or else thee would not be here. It was thy
men—these Indians, Bonnel! And thee need not pretend
to be ignorant of it. Thee knows it is my money in thy
leathern bag. Ah, Bonnel, Bonnel! This is the protection
of George's friends by his officers! Thee knows
very well we are loyal to the King.”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Schooley,” said Moody, in
tones of pretended earnestness. “But you shall see that

I am not to blame. It is necessary for me to act thus. I
intended to be here before the Indians, and then these
things would not have occurred. But now, if I were to
give you back the money, the savages would leave me, and
perhaps murder you.”

“Thee knows how to plead for money, Bonnel,” said
Mrs. Schooley.

“But you shall lose nothing, madam,” replied Moody.
“Every penny shall be paid back. We will go at once to
your house—if they did not burn it—and I hope they
didn't—”

“No, they did not,” said Mr. Schooley; “but thee
knows the burning would not be so great a loss to me as
the taking of my money.”

“I'll convince you of my friendship,” said Moody, cutting
the cords that bound the captives. “These are our
friends,” he continued, winking to the Indian chief, who
had only executed the Tory-robber's orders. “We will
conduct them back to their home, and dine with them, as
a token of our penitence for the mistake.”

“If thee would convince us of that,” said Thomas,
“thee had better give me the money.”

“That is filthy lucre, Thomas, and its restitution might
cause a quarrel, and perhaps bloodshed, among the King's
friends. No! You would not have such sins committed
for the sake of the dross! But you shall lose nothing. I
will give you a receipt for the whole sum, which will be the
same thing as an order on the King's treasury, when peace
is restored.”

“Thee has the power, and thee can act as thee pleases,”
said Thomas; “and thee can include the value of my negro
woman, which was two hundred pounds.”

“I will! And it shall be taken out of the pay of the
Indians. They should have known better! And I'll add
twenty pounds, friend Thomas, for our dinner, and we'll
call it forage.”

“Bonnel, thee knows my loyalty, and I do not doubt that
George's armies will resubjugate this rebellious people.
Nevertheless, thee would please me better by giving me
back my money and withholding thy order.”

“It is impracticable, sir,” said Moody, “and I am sorry
for it. Come on; you are now free, and the Indians will

do you no further injury unless you insist too much on
having back the gold.”

“And, be the powers,” said Paddy, stepping forward,
having wandered back in his endeavours to get away, “I
am included in the same party! I'm one of 'em, Misther
Mody, and I'm thruly glad we have fallen into the hands
of sich a liberal and ginerous gintleman.”

Paddy's return produced no particular commotion, since
his absence had not been observed. One of the Indians,
however, seeing his hands were loose, seized him by the
hair, and called upon his comrades to bind him again, saying,
in his own language, that Paddy was a furious warrior
and had killed a great number of their people. But this,
when interpreted by Moody, was flatly denied by Paddy.
He said his boasting was all gammon, and that he had
never hurt the hair of an Indian's head; and Thomas
demanded his release as one of his household.

“And that's thrue, Misther Mody,” said Paddy; “I'm
one of his family, if ye plase.”

“You no son of Quaker,” said the Seneca chief. “You
Irish—and Murphy Irish. We burn Murphy—we burn
Paddy.”

“I beg yer pardon, sir!” said Paddy. “Tim Murphy's
a great fighter and has killed a dozen blag—Indians.
Tim's a brave warrior, and Paddy's a coward!”

Paddy had no sooner made this admission than the Indian
struck him a blow on the head with the handle of his
tomahawk, which, although it produced no wound, felled
him to the ground.

“You are a fool, Paddy,” said Moody, interfering and
preventing further punishment, “for confessing yourself a
coward. That is the greatest crime of which you could be
guilty.”

“Divil take 'em!” said Paddy, rising. “There's no
plasing 'em! But I'll do as you say. And I'd be extramely
oblaged if ye'd let me go and wait upon the young
ladies, who are wishing for me at the Tower Rock.”

“Tower Rock! Yes, you shall go there with us, Paddy.
We will visit them to-night. They will know your voice,
and perhaps you can aid us in getting possession of the old
refugee. You shall share the reward and have a portion
of his treasure. I suppose, Paddy, since you are one of

Mr. Schooley's family, we can rely upon your loyalty. If
you are a Whig, say so, and we'll have your scalp on the
same string with the negro woman's, and save the hindquarter
of a pig at dinner.”

“Say so? And wud ye have me tell a lie, Misther
Mody? I was born under the reign of King George, of
glorious mimory! Misther Mody, if iver I live to git back
to ould Ireland, the king shall hear from Paddy's lips what
a thrue and valuable subjict he had in the wild wuds of the
Jenny Jump Mountain! You are fit to be a gineral, Misther
Mody, and his Majesty couldn't do a betther dade
than to make ye a knight, and bestow on ye a noble ancestry.
Try me, Misther Mody, and saa if Paddy don't drive
the ould gray rat into yer hands. And as for the reward,
Paddy has not the maneness of sowl to desire a pinny of
it! No, Misther Mody, it shall be all yer own.” And, as
he cast up his eyes to impress Moody with an idea of his
sincerity, he beheld Skippie in the tree over his head,
winking and making mouths at him.