Transcriber’s Note: A large number of spelling and printing errors have been corrected without further note. There are still some discrepancies in the spelling of personal and place names, and the text for the most part doesn’t use speech marks.
Hawk’s Nest, or The Last of the Cahoonshees.
James Martin Allerton.
Hawk’s Nest,
OR
The Last of the Cahoonshees.
A Tale of the Delaware Valley
and Historical Romance
of 1690.
BY
James M. Allerton.
THE GAZETTE
BOOK & JOB PRINT,
Port Jervis, N. Y.
Entered according to Act of Congress in
the year 1892, by
JAMES M. ALLERTON,
in the office of the Librarian of Congress
at Washington, D. C.
CONTENTS.
[CHAPTER I.]—A Bird’s Eye View of the Delaware and Neversink Valleys from Hawk’s Nest Mountains.
[CHAPTER II.]—The Water Spout.
[CHAPTER III.]—Tom and Drake at the Lifting Rocks.
[CHAPTER IV.]—The Bear and Panther.
[CHAPTER V.]—Parting of Mother and Child.
[CHAPTER VI.]—Cahoonshee.
[CHAPTER VII.]—The House of Death.
[CHAPTER VIII.]—Cahoonshee on the Origin of Man.
[CHAPTER IX.]—The Teacher and Pupil.
[CHAPTER X.]—Asleep on her Mother’s Grave—Going Fishing—True until Death.
[CHAPTER XI.]—The Second Lesson—Completing his Education—Found new Friends—The Mutiny—Death of Sambo.
[CHAPTER XII.]—Moccasin tracks in the sand—Cahoonshee at the Climbing Tree—The Battle of the Neversink—Drake’s fearful leap—The virtue of the Grape Vine.
[CHAPTER XIII.]—The Dead Shot—The Bee Tree—Amy a Prisoner in the hands of the Indians.
[CHAPTER XIV.]—Restored to reason—Cora, the Rough Diamond—A Temperance Lecture—Found two Grand-Fathers.
[CHAPTER XV.]—Death of Admiral Powers—Five years in a Mad House—Appointed a Lieutenant—Return to America.
[CHAPTER XVI.]—The bee hunters—Drake and Rolla on the trail—Call of the tree toad—Answer of the blue-jay.
[CHAPTER XVII.]—The storm—Buried in the river—Old Shell to the rescue—Which is which and what is what?
[CHAPTER XVIII.]—The hunt—The fatal shot.
[CHAPTER XIX.]—Mutual mistakes—The lost child found—Cahoonshee’s last will.
[CHAPTER XX.]—Farewell to earth—Cahoonshee on the future—Death of Cahoonshee—Married on her mother’s grave.
[CHAPTER XXI.]—Cora receives her reward.
[CHAPTER XXII.]—Death of Thomas Quick, Sr., and the threat of his son Tom.
[CHAPTER XXIII.]—Tom kept his vow and had his revenge.
[CHAPTER XXIV.]—Killing a buck with seven skins—The biter bitten—Throwing a young Indian down the rocks—Hiding guns in hollow trees.
[CHAPTER XXV.]—The whiskey scene—Six Indians roasted.
[CHAPTER XXVI.]—Capture, escape and death of Tom—Honored by a monument.
CHAPTER I.
A Bird’s Eye View of the Delaware and Neversink Valleys From Hawk’s Nest Mountain.
It is contrast that makes the beautiful. What a monotonous world this would be if it was one entire level plane. It is the variegated colors that makes the landscape beautiful and harmonious. In fact it is upon contrasts that we build all of our notions of the beautiful. Yet the same object seen by different persons, from the same standpoint, creates different impressions. Some admire the Alpine mountains and deep blue sky of Italy, and the towering majesty of Mont Blanc. Here, with them, all creation is centered, and there is nothing beautiful that is not connected with Italian skies, hills or landscapes.
Others view Vesuvius, and admire the smoke and fire as it is thrown heavenward. Others immure themselves within the walls of cities like New York or London, and satiate their eyes with brick and mortar, and their ears with a jargon of sounds. Others admire a more extended scenery, or rather a scenery where nature is represented in all its variegated colors; where river and rivulet are blended into one; where the cascade and cataract drop their moisture into the depth below; where the fauna and flora are equally distributed; where the mountain ascends thousands of feet, in contrast with the plain below. In a word, where nature’s great architect has faithfully executed the fore-ordained design.
But where can this perfection be found? Where is this Eden?
I have gazed upon all the cities of the world: From Mont Blanc I have viewed Italy and Switzerland; From Pike’s Peak I have viewed the Pacific and the western slope; I have stood over the thundering and majestic Niagara and viewed the spray going heavenward. All these views are grand and sublime, yet they lack contrast between great and small things that are calculated to make nature beautiful in all its parts and satisfy the mind, eye and ear at a single glance.
Yet there is one such spot on earth; one beautiful place where all these things are combined; one pinnacle of the mountain top, where the eye can take in all these beauties at a single glance.
It is that pinnacle that rises hundreds of feet above the level and embraces within its view the beautiful valley of the Delaware.
It is Hawk’s Nest Mountain. Here the Shawangunk range rises hundreds of feet above the Delaware river, and the beholder imagines himself transported to the skies. These heights are perpendicular, or rather they project over the river, and in its side are deep furrows, crevices and caverns. And in these crevices and caverns, the hawks and eagles build their nests and rear their young without fear of being molested by man.
A few feet from the Hawk’s Nest are the Lifting Rocks. In looking upon these, you gaze upon one of the wonders of the world. Here are three large rocks, but a few hundred feet apart, weighing from 30 to 100 tons, elevated above the ground about five feet and resting on three stone pillars. These pillars are equal distance apart—as much so as if they had been placed there on geometrical principles.
Where did these huge rocks come from? When were they placed there, and by what power were they raised and placed on these triangular pillars?
Geologists say that they were brought from a great distance by the ice during the glacier period, and that their setting on these pillars of stone is one of the freaks of nature beyond the comprehension of man.
Standing at Hawk’s Nest and looking southeast, we behold “High Point,” the most elevated land in the State of New Jersey, it being the highest point in the Shawangunk range. Northeast of us the Appalachian mountains rise to the horizon as far as the eye can reach.
INN AT HIGH POINT.
Turning to the southwest, “Pilot Knob” comes into view, towering hundreds of feet above the surrounding hills. To the northwest rises the Carbon mountains that furnish us with coal. And above all towers Mount Arrat, where it rains or snows every day during the year.
This direction also brings into view the rocky fortress where Tom Quick, the Indian Slayer, dug his cave and lay in ambush to wreak vengeance on his deadly foe. Northwesterly rise the “Fish Cabin” mountains, through whose rocks the water has cut a channel hundreds of feet in depth, and falls in the Delaware below. At Handsome Eddy and Shohola, the rocks rise in majesty above the river, and just beyond is the fatal battleground of the battle of the “Minisink.” At the north the country is dotted by the thrifty farmer with his cattle grazing on a thousand hills.
About five miles east from Hawk’s Nest rises the Shawangunk mountain, and at its base flows the lovely and placid Neversink (Mahackamack) river.
The Neversink valley runs northeast and southwest whilst the Delaware Valley runs northwest and southeast. The waters of the Delaware and Neversink unite about five miles from Hawk’s Nest, at a point called “Tri-States Rock,” this being a place that a person can stand in three states at the same time—New York, New Jersey and Pennsylvania.
Two miles above Hawk’s Nest, the waters of the Mongaup empty into the Delaware river. One-and-a-half miles east of Hawk’s Nest, the rapid Shinglekill plunges into the Delaware river. The fountain-head of this stream is a Big Pond, a small lake, about three miles from Huguenot. The waters of the Steneykill and Little Pond unite with the Shinglekill. The Sparrowbush unites with the Delaware about three miles from Hawk’s Nest. Below Hawk’s Nest Rock is Hawk’s Nest road, a lovely and romantic drive, from which can be seen the beautiful views I have described. Hundreds of feet below this road runs the Delaware and Hudson canal. As our vision extends across the canal and river to the Pennsylvania shore, we see the iron horse, puffing and blowing, as if to escape from the power of man. As we watch it in its course, it dashes across the iron bridge at Saw Mill Rift and enters the state of New York. At the angle of the Neversink and Delaware rivers, nestling between the mountains, lays the beautiful city of Port Jervis, with its factories, churches and monuments. On the west rises the lofty spires of Mount William and Point Peter, and opposite in the sister State of Pennsylvania is located the beautiful village of Matamoras, the rival town of Milford, whilst a little to the south is located the pretty village of Tri-States. About five miles northeast from Port Jervis, on the line of the canal, near the banks of the Neversink, is the old Peanpack (Huguenot) settlement. Thus I have described the Delaware Valley as seen by a bird’s eye view in July 1891.
But it is not of this time I write. Our tale of love and suffering dates back two hundred years ago; when the red man of the forest held sway, and contended for every inch of ground that the white man attempted to appropriate; when the war whoop, instead of the steam whistle, was heard.
CHAPTER II.
The Water Spout.
On a cold rainy day in the month of September, 1689, two emigrant wagons, each drawn by a pair of oxen, was seen passing along the old Kingston trail, on the east side of the Neversink, toward Peanpack. The day was far advanced, and the night was threatening. The women, children and furniture were concealed within a covered wagon. The drivers, with a hickory gad in their hands, were beside the oxen. And thus, over stump, log and stone, they trudged along. An opening is made in the cover, and a sweet, pretty face peeps out. Lewis, ain’t we most to Peanpack? I’m cold, tired and hungry, and Amy is quite sick. Get along, said Lewis, at the same time bringing the gad down on the oxen. Yes, replied he, we will soon be there, and if the pesky red-skins will let us alone we will have a good night’s rest. This was Lewis Powers with his wife and child en route for the far west in search of a home. Amy, their daughter, was a bright little girl, five years old. His wife was a model of a wife and mother, twenty-two years old, whilst Lewis was twenty-six, a strong, robust and healthy man. The next wagon contained William Wallace, wife and boy. Just as the sun was hiding itself behind the western hills, the party reached the Peanpack ford. This was passed safely, and, passing up the banks a few rods they encamped for the night. The wagon was unpacked, and out came a young Newfoundland dog and two white cats. A fire was built and in a short time the party sat down to supper. The party had left Connecticut eleven days before and had now reached within three days journey of their future home. Wallace’s boy’s name was Walter and he was six years old. The next morning they broke camp and the next night camped on the west side of the Mongaup. The next day brought them to Beaver Brook, and just after sunset of the third day they arrived on the banks of the Callicoon, or East Branch of the Fishkill (Delaware.) They selected a spot on the south side of the stream and went to work in earnest to clear a farm. Wallace located about half a mile up stream above Powers. In the course of a few days each of them had built a small, but comfortable log house. A confiding friendship was soon established between Walter and Amy, and the dog, Rolla, grew to be large and sagacious. Wallace’s house stood but a few rods below a large beaver dam that flowed over several hundred acres. They brought with them a large quantity of ammunition and traps. Otter and beaver were plenty in the streams and before the arrival of spring the two men had dried several hundred dollars worth of furs which they sold to the traders that went up and down the river in flat boats.
Thus, year after year passed. Nothing occurred to disturb the harmony of the settlers. Now and then a straggling Indian called, but never molested them. They were contented and prosperous. Amy was now ten and Walter twelve years old. The mothers of the children had taught them to read and write. Several acres of land had been cleared on each farm and log barns built. But now a misfortune that entirely changes the destiny of these families overtakes them. An unusual drouth had occurred. Little or no rain had fallen during the months of June and July. The heat was intense and almost unbearable.
Powers was dressing a deer that he had just shot in the river. Amy and Rolla were playing at the door and Mary was writing a letter to her Connecticut friends to send by the next trading party, when an unlooked-for clap of thunder broke upon them. Instantly a dark cloud is seen in the west. It was so dark and thick that it almost shut out the light of the sun. Then came a gust of wind which increased in its fury every moment. This was followed by a heavy rain. It fell in such torrents that in less than an hour the river began to rise and overflow the banks. Just then Walter Wallace came running in and said:
Father wants you to come and help him. There has been a water spout. The beaver dam is going out, and we will all be washed away.
Before Walter had finished his story, Powers was on his way to assist his neighbor. On arriving there, he was convinced that nothing could save them. The storm was raging in all its fury. Trees were torn up by their roots, and the air was filled with branches.
Save your wife and child, cried out Powers; get them on the raft. Wallace’s wife and Powers sprang to the raft. Wallace cried out to his son: Go into the house and get my gun. Walter sprang into the house and took down the gun. The crash came. The entire beaver dam had given away and the water and logs passed between him and the raft. Walter sprang on a fallen tree and escaped to high ground. Turning, he saw that the raft, with his father, mother and Powers had broken loose and was swiftly passing down the stream, surrounded by trees and logs. In a few moments the house shared the same fate. Thus, in an hour, what they had toiled for years to build up, was, in a moment, washed away.
Mary Powers, as soon as her husband left, went to the river bank. She was convinced from the appearance of the water spout that her own home would soon be washed away. The water was now running around the house and retreat to the higher ground was cut off. With the sagacity of a mother, she ordered Amy on the raft that was tied to a sapling on the river bank but a few feet from the door, and then hurriedly throwing a blanket over her shoulders, stepped on the raft. Rolla whined and barked, jumping out of the house and then in again, as if in search of something he did not like to leave behind. The white cat appeared and Rolla took her in his mouth and with a bound leaped on the raft. At that moment Wallace and his wife passed her.
Where is Powers? cried the anxious wife and mother. The incessant slash of the water prevented her from hearing, but Wallace’s finger pointed to the water.
Drowned! she cried. Amy, you have no father.
For over an hour the sapling held the raft, when a gigantic tree that had been washed from the banks, struck it, and they were hurled into the foam of that mad stream. One, and only one saw them start. Walter Wallace had reached a point of land opposite Power’s house, but could get no nearer. A few moments after the raft broke loose the house followed. As young as Walter was, he took in the situation, and realized the fact that he was not only an orphan, but that Amy and Mary must meet a watery grave. No boat could live in that wild stream. He had but one thing to console him—the dog and cat might swim ashore and find him. Then he gave vent to his pent up feelings and cried until he fell asleep, where we will leave him for the present.
CHAPTER III.
Tom and Drake at the Lifting Rocks.
I now take my readers to Hawk’s Nest. There sets, or rather lay, two young men, not yet out of their teens, under one of the Lifting Rocks. The wind blew a gale from the northwest and the rain fell in torrents. They were dressed in hunter style. Both were strong and vigorous. One had a rifle laying by his side and the other an Indian bow and arrows. Under the rock lay a deer that they had killed just before the storm commenced. They seemed to be very much attached to each other, but it was plain to be seen that they were not brothers. Both had grown to the stature of men. The elder, whose name was Charles Drake, weighed about one hundred and fifty pounds, with light eyes and hair. The other was called Tom Quick. He was of dark features, black hair and brown eyes. And as they lay under the rock waiting for the rain to cease, they engaged in the following conversation:
I say, Tom, how do you think these large rocks got on the top of these large stones?
I don’t know! replied Drake. I have often thought about that a great many times. I suppose the Great Spirit placed them there. If the Great Spirit piled up these mountains and dug out the great rivers, He could easily lift one of these rocks.
Oh! replied Tom, that is a very easy way of building rocks, rivers and mountains, to say the Great Spirit done it; but who made the Great Spirit you are always talking about? Who has ever seen or heard him?
I can’t answer that, replied Drake; I only know what my squaw mother told me; that the Great Spirit made all these things, and the Indian thinks he sees the Great Spirit in the lofty mountain, foaming streams and rustling leaves. He thinks he hears Him in the whistling wind, the roaring cataract and the belching thunder. He thinks he feels Him here, (laying his hand on his heart.) He believes that when he dies he will meet this Great Spirit in the happy hunting grounds, never to part again. But Tom, what does your own good mother tell you about these things?
Tom seemed to awake from a dream. He had listened attentively to what his companion had said, and it seemed to have awakened new ideas in his mind.
My mother, replied Tom, talks about these things in a different way. She hates the Indian and the Indian’s Great Spirit. She says God done all these wonderful things, and she reads to us from an old leather book, held together by iron straps; that God made the mountains and rivers; the trees and flowers; the birds and the fish; the thunder and the lightning; and last of all he made man; and that if we are good, when we die we will go to God and live with him forever.
Did your mother or any of you ever see God? asked Drake.
No, replied Tom, mother says God is a Spirit and can’t be seen, but is in everything and is everywhere; that he is now looking at us and hears what we say.
It was now Drake’s turn to be astonished. The white man’s God saw all that was said and done: He even heard what he and Tom was talking about. Throwing himself on the other side, he remained silent for a few moments, and then said:
Tom, I guess there ain’t much difference between the white man’s God and the Indian’s Great Spirit. Neither of them have been seen, but both of them have done all these wonderous works. It looks to me that they are the same certain something that we don’t know—can’t know much about until we arrive at the Great Hunting Grounds.
Thus, these untutored youths speculated upon what has racked the brains of philosophers of all ages, and with about the same results.
I say, Tom, do you think that the Great God, or Great Spirit, (I don’t think it makes much difference which you call them,) works as we do? That he has hands, feet, eyes and ears? That he smooths these rocks as we do the stones that we grind corn with? That it was in this way he made the Bottle Rocks that stick up in the Neversink river?
I don’t know, replied Tom, scratching his head as if in search of an idea. I only know what the missionary says about it. He says the Bottle Rocks were once large, ragged rocks that broke loose from the mountain and fell into a pool of water, and for ages were whirled about until they were made into the shape of a bottle. But on the Steneykill there are two other funny made stones—large white ones—as large as the rock we lie under—in the shape of a heart. They are just alike, yet they are hundreds of feet apart. The missionary says they were once in one stone and were frozen in the ice. That when the warm weather came, the ice brought them down here. That the ice struck a mountain of stone and split the rock into two parts and dropped one half and carried the other half a little further and then dropped that.
Who and what is this missionary that knows so much? asked Drake.
Oh, said Tom, he is a man; only a man, and looks just as we do.
Oh! I am glad of that, replied Drake; I thought he might be the God your mother’s book tells about.
Drake, you often speak about your squaw mother. Where is your real mother?
That I don’t know, replied Drake. I have no recollections of any mother, except the old Indian woman that I lived with, until your father captured me on the Mongaup. From my earliest recollection, I remained in the Indian camp until the time I came to your house, and since that time, your mother has been my mother. From what I could learn whilst I was among the Indians, my father and mother lived on a big boat that had big guns that made a noise as loud as thunder, and would carry a thousand Indian canoes on deck. And it was whilst father and mother were on shore that the Indians stole me and carried me off, for the purpose of getting big money. And this was about all they would tell me. The first that I can remember, we lived in a big rock house (cave.) It is not a great way from the place the Indians call Stockbridge. It was with the Stockbridge Indians I lived. My old Indian mother used me as well as other Indian children were used. When they went on their war or hunting expeditions, the women and children were generally left at home. Our living was wild game and Indian corn. Every year, a party was formed to go on a hunt for beaver and otter, for the purpose of getting their furs to sell to the traders, for which they got in return beads, knives, tomahawks and fire-water. It was on one of these hunting expeditions after otter, at the head-waters of the Mongaup, that your father captured me.
I have said that usually, my Indian mother used me well. But there were times when she was cruel. When she got mad she was furious, and would come at me with all vengeance, with knife, club, or anything she could get hold of. Then I would run in the woods to get away from her, and sometimes stay three or four days.
It was on one of these occasions that your father found me and brought me to your house, and you know the rest.
Did the Indians make that black spot on your breast? asked Tom.
I don’t know, replied Drake. It has always been there. The Indians called it big canoe. Look, Tom, and see what it looks like, said Drake, at the same time baring his bosom.
Why Drake, that is an anchor! said Tom; and sure enough, there is a big canoe; yes, and there are letters on it, like the ones in mother’s old bible. There is C. D. on the top, and E. N. on the bottom. That wan’t made by the Indians, Drake, maybe your father put that there. It don’t look like Indian work; they paint themselves, but that rubs off, but this don’t rub off. Water won’t wash it out.
No, replied Drake, the more I wash it, the plainer it gets. It seems to be under the skin.
What did they call you when you were among the Indians? asked Tom.
“Swift Foot,” replied Drake.
And why did father name you Drake, when he brought you to our house?
He said that, or something like that was my name; that it was painted on my breast.
I see, replied Tom. “C. D.,” that means Charles Drake.
The sun was now down. The wind whistled and the rain fell in torrents. The hawks had hid themselves within the caverns of the rocks. The beasts of prey had sought refuge from the storm, and the boys concluded to remain under the rock until morning.
Thus, they slept in unconscious bliss, when suddenly they were aroused by an unearthly noise that pierced them to their hearts. Such shrieks were calculated to arouse the slumbering dead. Tom caught his rifle, and Drake his bow and arrows. The storm had cleared; the rain had ceased, and the sun was just rising over the Shawangunk Mountains. The shrieks continued.
What does this mean? cried Drake, are the Indians upon us? and is this their war-whoop?
No, replied Tom, it is the hawks. They are out in full force.
I should think so, replied Drake. They are so thick that they darken the sun. See them dive down. They think that they see the carcass of a deer in the river, and want to pick its bones for breakfast, but something scares them back.
Tom, by this time, was at the top of the pinnacle where he could see miles up and down the river. The banks were full and the whole river was strewn with logs, trees and drift-wood. The hawks continued to dive down towards the water, then suddenly rising and screaming.
I see! I see! cried Tom. See there, Drake; there is a raft just going through the Cellar Hole! Yes, by Jove! there it goes, and there is something on it!
That is so, rejoined Drake. It is a bear.
Yes, it is a bear, but what is that it is standing over? It is a woman. I see her dress.
It must be a tame bear, rejoined Drake. See it lick the woman’s hand.
Stop! said Tom, I see two women there, a big and little one, and the little one lays across the big one. There is something else there—a cat or rabbit; yes, and the bear is a dog.
These, said Drake, are some of the up-the-river-folks, that have been washed away, and got on the raft for safety. I guess they are all dead but the dog. But we must try and save them. If there is any life in them, it will be drowned out in going through the rift below the Island.
Then they sprang down the rocks like two antelopes. Reaching the river, Tom was about to plunge in.
Stop! cried his companion. Nothing but a duck or its mate can live in that water; I am the mate of the duck; I am the Drake that will venture!
And suiting the action to the word, plunged in. For a moment he disappeared in the surging foam, and then rose to the surface. The river was so thick with drift-wood that it was with difficulty he could stem the current.
At last he reaches the raft.
The cat mews—the dog whines, but the women remain as silent as the grave.
By superhuman efforts, Drake lands the raft at the head of the Island, at the mouth of the Shinglekill. Tom had run along the bank, swam the Bennykill, and was at Drake’s side when the raft landed.
Are they dead? exclaimed a rough, stentorian voice that could be heard above the slash of the water, emanating from a person now for the first time introduced to our readers.
I guess so father, they don’t move, replied Tom.
The old man jumped into the canoe and bent his head over the prostrate form of the child. After listening for a moment, he snatched her in his arms and said:
Her heart beats; as long as that beats, there is life, and as long as there is life, there is hope. Take her to the house, Drake, and tell Betsy to put her to bed and cover her with bear skins.
Drake caught her in his arms and waded across the Bennykill, and gently laid her in bed and covered her with skins.
The old man now made an examination of the mother, during which time Rolla kept whining. He would jump up to her and bark—as much as to say “Look up Mary, you are in the hands of friends.” But no signs of life appeared. Tapping the dog on the head, the old man said:
Faithful animal, more faithful than some that claim to have souls; not only to death, but faithful after. Yes, dog, you may bark—you have a right to bark, but you can’t bark her back, she has gone to the Indians’ fair Hunting Ground. But we must respect the dead. Here, Tom, help place her in the canoe, we will take her ashore and give her Christian burial.
Tom raised her up, and as he did so, large quantities of water came from her mouth. The dog barked and sprang towards her.
That is a good sign, said the old man, the dog has discovered life. Brute, as he is, yet instinct tells him more than the wisest men know.
Look! cried Tom excitedly. Her eyes quiver and her lips move. Bend yourself to the paddle, Tom! Pull for your life! Pull! We may save her yet!
The shore was soon reached, and the lifeless body of the mother was laid by the side of her child.
CHAPTER IV.
The Bear and Panther.
We left Walter Wallace asleep on the banks of the Callicoon. How long he would have slept, we cannot say, had it not been for an unlooked-for event. The day was just dawning. The silver streak of morning had lit up the eastern sky, when Walter, in a half-waking, and half-dozing condition, thought he felt Rolla by his side. He placed his paw on him and partially turned him over. Then he run his nose along and smelled his body. Then came a fierce growl. This brought Walter to his feet. A sight met his eye calculated to strike terror to the heart of an old hunter.
At his feet stood two young cubs, while at a distance of about twenty feet, perched on the limb of a large tree, was a large sized panther, and at the root of the tree, stood a large black bear, the mother of the cubs at his feet, looking intently at the panther. As Walter raised, the bear turned one quick glance at him, but instantly turned her eye on the panther. Walter did not know what to do. It was the panther that he was afraid of. He had been told that a bear would not molest a person unless they attempted to injure her cubs. It was evident that the bear was watching the actions of the panther, and caring but little for him. He therefore concluded to make friends with the bear by patting her cubs. Gently stooping down, he fondled the cubs. They seemed to have no fear of him, and played about him like two kittens. Now and then, the bear would cast a wistful eye at him, as much as to say “protect my young.” Just then the panther gave a spring and landed on the limb of the tree under which Walter and the cubs lay. The bear instantly jumped to the spot, but paid little or no attention to him.
It now occurred to Walter that he had his father’s gun with him.
Casting his eye to the ground he saw it. He immediately raised it to his shoulder, and taking steady aim across a small sapling, aiming directly between the panther’s eyes, fired. The panther fell. No sooner had it touched the ground, than the bear grasped it, and in an instant, its bowels were torn from its body.
During the encounter between the panther and the bear, the bear kept up a continual growl. But as soon as the panther was dead, the bear was as cool as if nothing had happened. Walking quietly up to her cubs, she took one of them in her mouth, and carried it to the panther, then she returned and got the other. Young as the cubs were, they seemed to understand what their mother meant, and immediately commenced to lap the panther’s blood. The old bear then approached Walter, and smelled him all over, and then returned to her cubs, and in a few minutes walked off, and was seen no more by Walter. Still, he was at a loss what to do or where to go, and for the first time realized that he was hungry.
The sun was now far up in the eastern sky, and he concluded that he would take that direction as that would take him to Peenpack. Reloading his gun, he threw it across his shoulder and started for higher ground in an easterly direction.
He had proceeded but a short distance, when he heard a voice say in plain English:
“North! North! A little further north!”
This both pleased and frightened him, and jumping upon a large log, and looking in the direction from which the sounds proceeded, to his astonishment, he saw a man standing behind something that had three legs, waving his hands. Looking in the direction that the hand indicated, he saw another man holding a flag. On the top of these legs was something that glittered in the sun like gold. The man that stood behind it would look down at it, and then at the flag. In looking a little further back, he saw ten or twelve men, some of them on horses, some with axes and some drawing a long, light chain. He was amazed at the sight, not knowing whether to hide or run. He heard a slight noise behind him, and turning around, stood face to face to some kind of a being. He knew not what it was. It looked just like a man, only it was jet black, curly hair and pearly-white teeth. He thought it must be the devil that his mother had told him about, but he failed to see the forked tail. In his fright he sprang from the log and ran towards the white man.
Indian! Indian! cried the devil behind him.
Instantly the whole party was in commotion, and the men on the horses raised their guns.
Who? Where? What is it? cried the man at the three legged object.
Here, Massa, here! cried the black, at the same time seizing Walter by the coat.
This soon brought the whole party to the spot where the negro held Walter. Webb saw at once that his supposed enemy was but the stripling of a boy, and a white boy at that.
Who is it with you? pleasantly asked Webb.
No one; Walter replied in a mild and mannerly way.
No one? said Webb, that can’t be, boy, you are fifty miles from any habitation, you are a stool pigeon for the Indians!
Stool pigeon, sir? I don’t know what stool pigeon is, I have not seen any Indians.
Are you alone?
Yes.
Where is your father?
I haven’t got any; he was drowned yesterday in the Callicoon.
Webb at once became interested in the boy, and said:
Sit down, and tell us all about your father and mother, and how they came to get drowned.
Walter began where his recollections commenced, and gave a history of his family; where they came from; their living on the Callicoon; the water-spout; the breaking of the beaver dam; his parents being hurled into the mad, wild Callicoon, and closed his narrative with the description of his encounter with the bear and panther.
Webb, though of a rough exterior, had a kind and sympathizing heart.
I believe you, boy, I believe every word you say, and promise you a protector until a better one is provided. When did you have anything to eat last?
Nothing, sir, since yesterday morning.
Here Sambo, (addressing the black,) said Webb, get this boy something to eat.
That I will, in right quick time, too, replied the black. If dat dere little kid eat as fast as he run, he git on de outside of a bear in no time. Golly, Massa, he jump twenty—thirty—forty feet in no time. He took me for de debble. O golly! golly! I wonder if I look like his satanic majesty? I suppose so; ha! ha! ha! Well, come dis way, buck; I’ll stuff dat skin of yours so full dat it bust; Golly, no dinner, no supper, no breakfast. I kinder guess dat his belly feels kinder lank.
Stop that jargon, said Webb. The boy can’t live on nigger talk. Take him to the kitchen.
Yes, Massa, I’ll take him to the kitchen, in right quick time, and show him to de cook. Come along buck.
That ain’t his name, said Webb. Call him Walter.
Come along den Water dis way. Dis darkey stuff your skin like a Christmas turkey. Come den, quick, quick come.
Sambo lead the way, and Walter followed. After going about a mile, they came to a small flat in a hollow, near which was a spring of cool water.
Near the spring was a large log house. Sambo conducted Walter into the house, and spread before him venison and corn bread, which he devoured with an appetite. Then they returned to the surveying party.
Now, said Webb, can you find the way back to where you shot the panther?
Oh yes, replied the boy. It is just down the hill there, can’t you hear the water roar?
The whole party now started, and in a few minutes was at the scene of the encounter. There laid the panther, the largest of his species.
Webb set the men at work to take off his hide, while he and Walter went to see the destruction caused by the water-spout the day before. Not a vestige of either house was to be seen. The beaver dam was dry, the cleared land was washed and gone down the stream. A cat, and a cat only, was left to tell the tale.
On a tree, standing on a small island formed by the washout of the day before, lay a large white cat. The sight of this cat brought to Walter recollections of the great loss he had sustained, and the tears rolled down his cheeks.
Was that your cat? remarked Webb.
Yes, sobbingly replied Walter. That is my Amy. Kit! kit! kit! Come here.
The cat heard and recognized the voice, and a moment later, was in Walter’s arms. He fondled her and talked to her in such a way that Webb was convinced that there was something besides the cat that affected him.
Never mind, my boy, you may take the cat with you to the camp and keep it for a playmate. I suppose that this was the only thing you had to love in your wilderness home?
No, replied Walter. I had another playmate that I loved, and the cat is named after her. Yes, Amy Powers was just as pretty, good and kind as this kitten.
And then he sobbed as if his heart was broke.
I think, said Webb, that as young as you are, that Cupid has shot an arrow that has lodged where you will never get rid of it.
Cupid? said Walter, I don’t know what Cupid is.
I mean, remarked Webb, that you have fallen in love with the namesake of your cat; and if she was as loving, gentle and confiding as the kitten you hold in your arms, you are not to be blamed.
It is a great deal to have the kitten, she will always keep my memory fresh for Amy.
Never mind, boy; you will grow older, and will find some other girl that you will love, and forget Amy.
Forget Amy? he replied; No, Mr.——, I don’t know your name. You don’t know me. No, I never will, I never can forget my Amy. And I here and now swear, in the presence of my God and my desolate home, never to forget her! I further swear never to love another!
Good, bold and generous boy, exclaimed Webb. You know nothing of the world, and but little of yourself.
I know myself well enough to know that I shall never forget my first and only love.
CHAPTER V.
Parting of Mother and Child.
We now return to Quick’s cabin, on the Shinglekill. His residence was on the banks of the Delaware, at, or near Milford and the cabin on the Shinglekill was temporally used during the trapping season. The Senior Quick was a Hollander, and had settled at Milford while the country was a howling wilderness. He had three brothers, and from them has sprung the numerous Quick families in the Delaware Valley, and he was the father of Tom Quick, one of the heroes of our tale.
This cabin in which they carried Amy and her mother, was a log structure, in the midst of a Butternut grove. The outside of the house was nearly covered by the skins of wild beasts, hung there to dry. Suspended on poles and trees, were skulls of bears, panthers, deer and other animals, in which the birds built their nests and reared their young. Up the bank, and between the house and the Hawk’s Nest, was a cleared field, on which they raised corn.
Entering the house, we are struck at the order and decorum everywhere seen. The chimney is in one end of the house, and consists of a layer of red sand stone placed against the logs. There are no jambs to the chimney, and the smoke escapes through an opening in the roof. Hanging in crotches, on the side of the building, are three smoothly polished guns. In one corner of the room stands a number of bows and arrows. Overhead, tied to the rafters, hang numerous traps, and all about the house hang bags containing dried berries, herbs, etc. On a small table lies the family bible, bound with iron straps. On one side of the chimney is a closet containing the dishes and cooking utensils. On the back side of the room are four bunks in which to sleep. The end of the room, opposite the fire-place, is partitioned off, and furnished with a bed made of skins and furs.
It was in this room the mother and child were laid.
Heat some stones, said the elder Quick. And you boys go to rubbing them. We must start the blood.
Betsy soon had a number of warm stones wrapped in furs in the bed, while the boys applied themselves vigorously to rubbing their bodies.
The child soon gave evidence of restored animation. Breathing became perceptible. The muscles contracted, and her eyes partly opened. Then came a convulsion which shook her whole frame. Water and froth ran from her mouth.
That will do boys, said the old man. Let her lay quiet now. She will soon be herself again.
Rolla had been an anxious spectator of the scene we have described. Standing with his fore-feet on the foot of the bed looking intently into Amy’s face, he gave three suppressed barks.
The child is safe, exclaimed the old man.
Just then Rolla gave a mournful whine.
But, continued the old man, the mother will never see the sun set again. The dog, by some intuitive knowledge, sees life for the child, but death for the mother.
Then came a moment of suspense. The house was as silent as the grave, and all present stood gazing on the marble forms before them. A flush came into Amy’s face. Her eyes open.
Ma-ma—Rol—Rol!
And again all was silent.
She speaks, said Betsy, and her first thought is of her mother.
And her second of her dog, said Tom.
She now began to moan and talk, but not in a way that could be understood. At length her words were connected, but it was evident that she was delirious.
Oh! Walt. Do come and save your little Amy—River—big raft—pa-pa—drowned—hold her Rolla, hold her!
Thus she continued to rave for a few minutes, and then fell into a sweet, natural sleep.
In about half an hour her eyes opened, and she raised up and gazed about her in astonishment.
Where is mother? Where am I? Where is Rolla?
Rolla heard her, and bounded on the bed. Amy threw her arms about his neck.
Good Rolla! she exclaimed; Save mother—pull her out of the water—drag her on the raft!
Drake put out his hand, as if in the act of pulling the dog away.
No, no, boy, let the dog alone. That is nature’s own medicine. That is more soothing than a canoe-load of the white man’s pills. The girl requires quiet. Let the dog caress her.
This was said by a new comer, in a sweet and sympathizing voice, by an old man by the name of Wilson, (Cahoonshee,) of whom I shall speak hereafter.
In the meantime, all the arts known to the white man or Indian were resorted to, to revive the mother. They had, in a measure, restored circulation, but the breathing was accomplished with difficulty, and she showed no signs of consciousness. And thus the day passed in suspense.
The sun had just hid itself behind the western hills, as Amy aroused, and raised herself up in the bed. Rolla gave three soft, pleasant barks, and leaped on the bed and off again, and ran out of the house, and in again, jumping onto, and barking at every one, seemingly to express his joy at Amy’s recovery.
Where am I? she said, looking around the room.
Among friends, replied Wilson.
Where is mother?
Here, child, but unable to speak.
And Rolla; where is he?
Rolla, hearing his name pronounced, answered in person, giving a bark of joy, bounded on the bed.
Amy now seemed to be herself again, but it was thought best not to question her until she had fully recovered her strength. She was taken out in the shade of the butternuts, where we will leave her and Rolla for the present.
During this time the mother lay in a semi-conscious condition. At times she showed signs of reason, but was too weak to speak. The muscles of her mouth moved, but only a groan was heard.
Thus the night passed and the gray mist of morning is appearing. She opened her eyes and made a motion with her hand. In an instant Wilson was at her side.
What do you want good woman? Who do you want to see?
Instantly the whole household, including Amy and Rolla, surrounded the bed. The mother looked first at one, then at the other, and then cast her eyes heavenward, and dropped back on her pillow.
Blind! said Wilson.
Oh mother, dear mother, look at Amy! the child cried.
Now the mother shows signs of returning strength and was again raised up in bed, and as before, apparently looked to see those she could hear but could not see. There was no light in her eyes. She makes an attempt to speak, but her words are unintelligible. She tries again:
A—A—Amy—
Here, dear mother; here I am.
Kiss me, kiss me Amy.
She took hold of Amy’s hand and tried to speak again.
What is it mother? What do you want to say?
Rol—Rol—Rolla!
Before the words were finished, Rolla sprang to the bed and placed his fore-feet on her bosom.
See, mother, Rolla is here; said Amy.
A whine, accompanied by a mild bark escaped from the dog. The mother understood by that, that the dog was there. Then taking Rolla by the fore-paw, she, with a great effort laid it in Amy’s hand. Casting her sightless eyes toward heaven, she remained motionless for a few moments, evidently in prayer. A tremor came over her. A struggle ensued.
Nearly gone, said Wilson.
Her eyes open again. Now they can see and have the expression of intelligence. A silence ensues. She speaks:
Amy—Rolla—and drops on her pillow dead.
Rolla seemed to understand his mistress’s last wish and kissed the child that held its paw.
CHAPTER VI.
Cahoonshee.
I will now briefly relate the history of the man that was so abruptly introduced to our readers a few pages back, and who was an interested spectator at the death scene we have described.
Cahoonshee was reputed to be seven feet in height, with a large powerful frame. At a glance it was plainly to be seen that he was the true type of the Indian. High forehead, extended cheek bones, and a quick, twinkling eye. At the time we introduce him, he has passed his three-score-and-ten years. His hair is as white as snow; his voice low; his words few, and to the point. He belonged to a small tribe of the Delawares called Cahoonshees. When a small boy he was captured and taken to England. While there, he was painted in true Indian style, decked out with feathers in the most fantastic way, and carried around the country to be gazed at. This was repulsive to Cahoonshee, but for a long time he could not help himself. At length it was resolved to educate him for an interpreter and missionary. Cahoonshee proved to be an apt pupil, and in the end a good scholar. In a few years he mastered the English language and acquired a fair knowledge of the arts and sciences of that day. Then he returned to his native land, with the understanding on his part and on the part of the English that he was to remain in their employ and act as their agent and interpreter; and probably Cahoonshee intended to abide by this understanding when he left London.
They landed at Manhattan in the evening, and it was difficult for the Captain of the Reindeer to persuade him to wait until next morning before he started for the rivers and mountains of his childhood. Before the sun had risen the next morning, he was landed at Weehawken, and started on foot to climb the Palisades. Reaching the summit, he cast his eye back at the deep waters of the Hudson, and mentally resolved never to cross it again. As the earth was becoming enshrouded in the mantle of night on the second day, he struck the waters of the Delaware. During his journey from the Hudson to the Delaware, he was made to feel sad. The ravages of Christianity was to be seen at every step. The Indian wigwam had disappeared, and the white man’s house had taken its place. The white man had appropriated the land, and the Indian had gone—where? Echo answers where!
He stood on the bank of the river in silent meditation, living over again the days of his boyhood. When he hunted in these mountains, and fished in these streams, when his quick ear caught the sound of the canoe paddle. Looking in the direction of the sound, he saw a canoe swiftly approaching, containing but a single individual.
The canoe was close to the shore where Cahoonshee stood. He was at a loss whether to hide or make himself known. He judged that the canoe contained a white man, but the evening had so far advanced that a gloom passed over the waters.
Friend! said Cahoonshee in the Delaware tongue.
The man in the canoe dropped his paddle and seized his gun, then, looking toward the shore, saw a tall, athletic man, unarmed, with the palm of his hand extended. The man in the canoe, seeing this sign of amity, advanced to the shore, and saw that the stranger was an Indian in white man’s dress.
Delaware? exclaimed Quick in English.
Yes, replied Cahoonshee in the same language. Delaware in search of his old home and friends in the mountains.
My brother speaks like a white man, but looks like an Indian; said Quick.
I am no white man, I am an Indian, all Indian. Not a drop of white man’s blood runs in my veins. I am Cahoonshee.
Cahoonshee! exclaimed Quick. They were once a powerful and a brave tribe, but the last of them have passed away. Their lodges have rotted down; their fields are covered with thorns and briars, and their braves have gone to the spirit-land; not one of them is left; the echo of their voices are no longer heard on the Steynekill.
Does my brother know that country? asked Cahoonshee; Do you know the Steynekill? Do you know the silver lakes and the beaver dams?
Yes, I know them all. I have traveled over the mountains, trapped in the rivers and fished in the brooks. But there are no Cahoonshees there now.
Where did they go to?
The last of their braves were scalped by the Salamanques years ago, replied Quick.
At this disclosure, Cahoonshee drew his hand across his eyes and remained motionless. It was evident that he was struggling with his feelings. He swung to and fro, like a tree in a gale.
Did my brother have kin with the Cahoonshees? asked Quick.
Yes, all my kin. Father, mother, brother, sister—I am alone, not even a brother. Better that I had been there and died with them.
No, brother, you wrong the Great Spirit, who does all things well. But you have a brother, we are all brothers. Come, Cahoonshee, go with me to my house, and to-morrow I will go with you to the grave of your fathers.
Cahoonshee stepped into the canoe, and in a few minutes landed at Milford, the home of Quick. Cahoonshee partook of the white man’s hospitality with grace and ease, after which, he related his history from early boyhood, his capture, and subsequent voyage to England, his being made a show of there, his education, and return home. Quick was interested in his history, but what most interested him, was the education and manly appearance of his Indian guest.
After Cahoonshee had finished his story, he placed his hand to the side of his face, and seemed to be absorbed in some deep study from which Quick could not arouse him.
Will my brother go to bed? asked Quick.
No, replied Cahoonshee, white man sleep, Indian think.
At first Quick thought there might be some Indian deviltry behind all this apparent friendship.
Indian sleep, white man guard the fire, replied Quick.
Cahoonshee seemed to be stung by this mistrust.
Yes, Indian go to bed, but Indian no sleep. Indian think of the Cahoonshees. Indian never see one of his blood. Then casting his eyes heavenward, said:
White man lead. Indian follow.
Quick raised a ladder that led to the room above and was followed up by Cahoonshee.
There brother, is a bed of furs caught on the Steynekill. There you can sleep and dream.
At the dawn of day, Cahoonshee and Quick were on the trail that leads to Peenpack.
Where do you wish to go first? asked Quick.
To the graves of my fathers, replied Cahoonshee.
That is at the sand hill, on the east side of the Neversink, near the Kingston trail. ([See Appendix.])
From this time until they reached the sand hill, not a word was spoken. The Tri-States rock was passed, and the Neversink Valley opened up before them, while to the right rose the Shawangunk mountains. Cahoonshee wanted to go to the sand hills by a route that no Indian would see him.
There are the graves of the last of the Cahoonshees, said Quick, pointing.
Cahoonshee was silent and meditative. Before him was to be seen the graves of his fathers. The river had washed the banks, and skulls and skeletons were bleaching in the sun. Cahoonshee picked up one of the skulls, and peered into the cavities, from whence once emanated the fire of intelligence, and was the dome of thought. His frame shook, his eye moistened.
Enough! he said. Let us go.
The travelers pursued their way along the Neversink until they reached Basheskill, where they encamped for the night. Scarcely a word passed between Cahoonshee and Quick. Cahoonshee appeared to be in a deep study, the meaning of which, the white man could not fathom. The next morning they crossed the river and wound their way along the Neversink for several miles, when Cahoonshee suddenly exclaimed:
Beaver Dam! His eyes for the first time had fallen on a spot that reminded him of the days of his boyhood. It seemed to warm the blood in his veins and awaken long slumbering emotions that could no longer be suppressed.
Here, he exclaimed, is where I last saw my kindred; here is where my mother last smiled on me; here is where my father patted me on the head and said: “Be a good brave, and when I am gone to the Spirit World, govern the Cahoonshees wisely.” Let us go.
Then they struck northwesterly across Handy Hill to the head waters of the Steynekill and encamped for the night. The next night brought them to Mongaup Falls, and from there they went to Bushkill Falls. Then they crossed the ridge, and struck the Steynekill near the Heart Rock. This was the original camping ground of the Cahoonshees. Here Cahoonshee recognized his old home, and pointed out places that were of interest to him in his boyish days. From there they went to Hawk’s Nest, and then to the Quick cabin on the Shinglekill. After supper, while sitting in the room, lighted by the blaze of a pine knot, Cahoonshee became more communicative.
When does my brother return to Manhattan? asked Quick.
Never, replied Cahoonshee. White man expects me there, white man wants Indian to help white man cheat Indian, white man great and powerful, he take Indian’s land, and tell Indian to go west. Yes, Indian will be driven west, until the great Pacific swallows them up, Indian become extinct, white man own all, Indian die, white man live forever. No! No! Cahoonshee take no part in this. English educate me, English make me wise, yet English care nothing for Indian. English have a God, Indian, the Great Spirit. English God help white man rob Indian. English send missionary to convert Indian, Missionary in the cabin, fire-water in the hold. White man no practice what they preach. Indian true to the Great Spirit. White man all self. White man wise, Indian superstitious, Indian believe in great medicine man, white man in money. No, Cahoonshee will never return to Manhattan. Cahoonshee remain here until the Great Spirit calls him home. Cahoonshee return to the scenes of his childhood on the Steynekill and live alone until his dust unites with that of his kindred. Think not, white man, that I am an enemy of your race. No, I am their friend. I bow to the will of the Almighty. The education I received from the white man, made me more wise, yet more miserable. I see that the Indian must go down, while on their ruins the whites will raise a mighty nation. But between us, brother, there must be no enmity. Let us smoke the pipe of peace, and let this be the pledge between us: As long as the grass grows on these hills, or the waters runs in these rivers.
CHAPTER VII.
The House of Death.
We will now return to the house of death, on the banks of the Shinglekill. There lay the marble form of Mary Powers, the mother of Amy. She was lovely in life; in death, a model for an artist. Her countenance would indicate that she died in a peaceful state of mind, and perfectly resigned to the fate that had overtaken her. At the head of the bed stood Amy, crying as if her heart would break. At her side, stood her faithful dog, lapping her hand and rubbing his head against her seemingly trying to console her for the loss she had sustained in the death of her mother. Tom and Drake were interested spectators. This was the first natural death that either of them had ever witnessed. The senior Quick stood in the door, with his back to the corpse, apparently much affected. Cahoonshee stood at the foot of the bed, looking at the face of the dead. Betsy gently led Amy out of doors, and taking a seat under the butternuts, attempted to console her.
Don’t cry child, it is God that has called your mother home, and He has promised to be a Father to the fatherless.
But I have no mother now, said Amy.
Yes, dear child, I will be your mother, and Tom and Drake shall be your brothers.
Let the girl vent her feelings, said Cahoonshee, who unperceived had approached. Let her mourn her loss. Let her learn from this how uncertain all things are.
God did it, said Betsy. He does all things well. He did it for the good of this child.
That may be, replied Cahoonshee. Your old Bible says so. It speaks in thunder tones, that God works in a mysterious way his wonders to perform. But the girl cannot understand that. She can’t understand why in a day she is deprived of both her parents, and cast among strangers in this wilderness world. Blame her you must not—console her you cannot. Older and wiser heads cannot reconcile these things. But we must prepare to bury her. We can give the mother a christian burial, and then take care of her orphan child.
A grave was dug on a rise of ground on top of the river bank. The body was wrapped in furs, and this little group of mourners walked to the house prepared for all living. Cahoonshee and the Senior Quick led the way; Tom and Drake followed, bearing the corpse on a roughly constructed litter; then came Amy, Betsy walking on one side of her and Rolla on the other. The grave is reached, the body is lowered and covered with green boughs, and Tom and Drake are about to perform the last offices to the dead, when Rolla raised his head, looked intently, whined, and sprang toward a tree. Instantly all eyes are turned in that direction.
Walt! Walt! passionately exclaimed Amy, there is my Walt! Come Walt! Come and see Amy! Father dead—mother dead—none left but Walt and Rolla. Come kitty—kitty, come to Amy!
There in a tree sat the white cat that had been seen on the raft, but owing to the excitement of the occasion, had been forgotten. Hearing her name called, she slowly came down the tree.
Thus, another was added to the list of mourners. The grave was filled, the mound erected, when Cahoonshee said:
This is nature’s decree. “Dust thou art, and unto dust thou shalt return.” Let us return to the house. And setting the example he walked away.
But Amy refused to go. Throwing herself on her mother’s grave, she cried:
Oh! my own dear mother, I cannot, I will not leave you! Oh! let me die here; let me lay by your side. Who will love and look after me now?
Rolla looked up into her face—the cat mewed and nestled more closely to her bosom.
Leave her to her own thoughts, and that of her friends, said Cahoonshee looking back.
But Drake lingered. The scene put him in mind that he too once had a mother. That he too had been torn from her. That he too, by circumstances over which he had no control, had been thrown among strangers. And, as he saw the tears flow down Amy’s cheeks, moisture came in his own eyes.
Come Amy, come with me. I will be your brother and friend.
Amy raised her eyes to those of her friend and said:
Brother, you are good to think of me—you are good to promise to look after me. But who can look after me like my own dear mother that is now buried out of my sight?
Yes, replied Drake, I trust she is in the heaven that Cahoonshee and Betsy talks about. But I don’t know much about such things. I never had any mother to tell me about God and heaven.
But Drake, you had a mother, and if she was a good mother, she would have told you all about the bible and God. My mother used to read to me how God made the world in six days, and everything there was in it. That people lived in a big garden, and were very good and happy. Then they got to doing naughty things, and God made it rain very hard and the people were drowned, all except one family, and they escaped in the ark. I suppose that it was just such a big rain that came on the Callicoon and drowned father and mother. But they wan’t bad, and I don’t see what he wanted to drown them for.
This was a subject that Drake knew but little about, and he could think of nothing to say that would be consoling to the girl. But at last he said;
Cahoonshee, the big Indian, will tell you all about those things. He knows. He has crossed the water in a big canoe. He studies books. Let us go to the house and talk with him.
CHAPTER VIII.
Cahoonshee on the Origin of Man.
At the close of Chapter VI, we left Quick and Cahoonshee conversing by the light of a pine knot fire at Quick’s cabin on the Shinglekill. Here they smoked the pipe of peace, and pledged to each other eternal friendship. During the night it was arranged that the next morning they would go to the Heart Rock, on the Steynekill, and erect a cabin for Cahoonshee. The cabin was built a few rods from the Steneykill brook, near a spring. At this place Cahoonshee spent part of his time, and the balance at Quick’s. Thus, a mutual friendship was established between the white man and Indian that lasted through life.
Cahoonshee keenly felt the degradation of his people. The education he had received in Europe had swept from his mind the Indian superstitions that were cherished and practiced by his fathers. He believed that all European nations were combined to drive the Indian from the forest and appropriate the land to themselves. Yet he held to the religion of his fathers, really seeing no difference between the white man’s God and the Indian’s Great Spirit. He believed in a first cause. This cause began to operate at the beginning of time. That time began when matter began to move. He believed that this first cause was an intelligent cause. He ignored nothingness—or rather claimed that there was no such thing as nothing. He rejected the common term of Spirit, and advocated that a Spirit was an actual entity, although as invisible as air or gas. That this Spirit, this entity was substance, although it could neither be seen, heard or felt. That this entity possessed certain attributes, among which were power, plan and design.
The reader will perceive that such a man, with such a mind, having the exalted views of Cahoonshee, would not feel at home with either white man or Indian. He was ahead of the age, and saw in the dim future the extinction of his race. His tribe was already extinct except himself. He believed that the merciless white would continue to drive the powerless Indian west, until the bones of his race would bleach on the western slope, and be washed by the Pacific.
It was for these reasons that he wished to return to the scenes of his childhood, and spend the rest of his days in comparative solitude.
Yet he had one idea, and that idea was to acquire and impart knowledge. But the world was not prepared to listen to such depth of thought.
He resolved at death to leave one pupil behind. That pupil should be a white man. That man should be Charles Drake. That he had succeeded, in a measure, is evident from the conversation Drake and Tom had at the Lifting Rocks, as narrated in Chapter III. His mode of instruction was in the true Indian style.
A few evenings after Cahoonshee had taken up his quarters in his cabin on the Steynekill, he and Drake were sitting together, when the moon began to light up the eastern sky. Drake watched it intently until the full moon arose above the horizon.
Cahoonshee, he said, you say that the sun is a burning mass, a liquid flame, and that it is the heat from this mass that warms the earth. Is that beautiful moon also a mass of fire?
It is supposed not, replied Cahoonshee. We derive but little heat from the moon. It has cooled off, and it is only the reflection of the sun on that planet that makes it appear so bright to us.
You say that it has cooled off. What do you mean by that? Was it once like the sun, a blaze of fire?
Of course, Drake, no one has ever been to the moon to make a personal inspection. Yet the wise men of the east think they have good reasons for believing that the moon, and this earth, and all the planets and stars we see in the heavens, were once a burning mass of fire, that the moon has cooled off, and is now a cold, uninhabited world.
You do not mean to say that this earth on which we live was, at one time a seething mass of fire?
I do not mean to assert that, I simply say, that by investigation, I am led to believe that such was the case.
Cahoonshee, where do you say that man came from? and what was the reason for the great difference between the white man and the Indian?
Ah, Drake, you have opened a subject that is but little understood, and one that I am not capable of satisfactorily answering. Yet, I will give you my views.
Betsy’s bible gives an account of the creation of man. That God made him from the dust of the earth, and in His own image. But you should understand that this is the white man’s bible, and in it the Indians are called heathens. But the Indian’s bible is much older, and plainer to be read.
It is Nature’s book.
The rocks, rivers and mountains are its chapters. Beasts, birds and reptiles are its verses, and the Great Spirit is its author. And within this book will be found all that does or ever did exist. The constituent parts are the mineral, animal and vegetable kingdoms of the world. Each has within itself a principle of organic life, but of itself cannot produce either animal or vegetable life, but a combination of these elements, by a chemical process, known only to nature, produces something unlike either the constituent parts. Thus the principle the germ of all animal and vegetable life is contained in the natural world, and it only requires that these different properties should be combined in order to work out the natural result.
It is done by the same power and upon the same principles that draws the apple to the ground, and balances the planet in its orbit.
Thus, the origin of all animals and vegetables are to be found in earth, air and water, and by a combination of these properties, under favorable circumstances, nature’s desired result is accomplished.
Therefore, nature produces from nature just what nature requires.
Thus we find that at this day, seed, dug thousands of feet beneath the earth, sprout, grow and bring forth fruit and vegetation unlike any that have grown before. While buried in the bowels of the earth, there was no opportunity for developement, no opportunity for chemical combination. But when brought in contact with the rays of the sun, the soil of the earth and the gases of the air, the life principle within the seed springs forth, and it becomes a beautiful flower or an animal—perhaps a man. It is either vegetable or animal. Sometimes both.
Man sprang to the earth in every quarter of the globe where nature had prepared the way and furnished substance on which he could live. Thus, men in different countries and continents were different in structure, color and language. Thus I account for the white, brown and black races.
The white man finds his God and religion in the bible. The Indian finds the Great Spirit in nature. The Indian saw the wonderful works of nature going on before his eyes. He saw the sun in the heavens, and wondered from whence came the fuel. He saw the vaulted heavens dotted with stars, and wondered what held them in their places. He heard the thunder and saw the lightning flash, and asked from whence came this power. He saw his fellow struck with death, and asked, “is this the last of man?”
He sought a solution of these problems by studying the nature of that power that could perform such great and mighty works. And having came to the conclusion, by a course of reasoning, that this power emanated from a source above and beyond nature, he began to worship that power, and conceived that this certain something possessed certain attributes, among which was power, plan and design. That if there was a design, then there must have been a designer. This designer the Indian called the Great Spirit.
Thus, the Indian was a religious animal. And here the worship of the Great Unknown and Unseen commenced. And inasmuch as this unknown power was intangible and could not be seen, the Indians worshiped representative Gods. Some worshiped the sun, some the moon, and some the monsters of the deep. The Indians worshiped the God of the valley, the mountains, the rocks and rills, the rivers and springs.
Thus I have tried to answer your question. At another time I will still further unfold this mystery.
CHAPTER IX.
The Teacher and Pupil.
We now return to Walter Wallace, who we left on the banks of the Callicoon in company with Surveyor Webb and party. Webb soon discovered that Walter was a boy of more than ordinary intelligence, and that his education had not been neglected. He could read and write, and had made some advancement in arithmetic.
They returned to camp about noon and eat a hearty dinner to which Walter did ample justice, although he had eaten a late breakfast.
Webb had been pondering in his mind upon the propriety of asking Walter to become one of his party, and retain him, if possible, until the survey of the Minisink country was completed. To that end he said to Walter:
Are you willing to remain with me and learn to survey?
I am willing to do anything I can, the boy replied, but I have not got learning enough to read the figures on that thing.
But you can learn, said Webb.
I can try, replied Walter.
That is all that is required. You must try and be accurate. There is no such thing as good enough. Everything must be done accurate.
I will try my best, said Walter.
That is all that is required, and to-night I will give you the first lesson.
After supper, Webb and Walter went to the top of the hill. The compass was properly adjusted on the tri-pod.
Now, said Webb, I want you to level the instrument. That is very important. Unless the compass is exactly level, the needle will not balance.
Walter took hold of one of the sights and attempted to level the instrument, but failed.
Take hold of both of the sights, boy, one with your right and the other with your left hand. Use force enough to bring the bubbles in the centre of the glasses forward. Then do the same with the cross level.
I see, said Walter. This glass levels it one way and the other glass the other way, and when the bubbles are in the centre of both glasses, the compass is level. Let me try it again.
He did so, and the compass was level.
Bravo! exclaimed Webb. You have mastered one of the most difficult parts of the adjustment of the compass. Now take hold of that screw on the under side with your thumb and finger, and turn it around until the needle moves.
He did so, but excitedly stepped back as if he had seen some apparition.
Don’t be frightened, boy, it will not hurt you.
It is alive! It moves! exclaimed Walter excitedly.
You are half right boy. It moves but there is no life there.
What makes it move? See! It goes first one way and then the other.
True, but it will soon stop, said Webb.
But what makes it move? Black iron can’t move itself. Is there wheels in there that moves it like father’s clock?
No. It moves by the same force that exists in nature, which is but little understood. We know the fact that it does move, and that is about all we know about it.
But it is boxed up tight. The hand can’t touch it, or the wind blow it. But something makes it go. What makes it go?
That is a mystery I cannot fully explain myself, but as you progress, you will learn as much about it as I know myself, and I trust much more. There are a great many things in nature that are beyond the comprehension of man, that time and study will generally explain.
But it has stopped. It is now perfectly still. What stopped it? Father used to say that if a body was put in motion, it would never stop unless it came in contact with some other body. But nothing has come in contact with it.
You are slightly mistaken in that. There is a slight friction on the centre pin. Yet that did not stop the needle. The fact is, the same invisible power that started it, stopped it. But I will explain more about it when you have learned its uses. You will see that on one end is a small copper wire wound around it. That is to balance the needle on the centre pin, and denotes that it is the south end of the needle. The other end always points to the north.
How can you know that? asked the boy.
Because it always points directly, or nearly directly towards the north star. If the needle gets out of order it will not point to the star. Now turn the compass so that the needle will be directly back of the letter N.
Walter did so.
I can’t see any star there. Now I see hundreds of them. Which one is the north star?
It is a small, twinkling star. It will appear and then disappear. Did your father ever show you the big dipper, or great bear?
Oh, I know the big dipper, but I never saw the great bear.
They are both one, boy. The two lower stars are called pointers. Look to where they point to, and tell me what you see?
I see the small, twinkling star you spoke of. I will never forget that. I suppose that the pointers on the dipper always point the same way, and that I can find the star by looking at the pointers?
You are partly right. You can always find the star by following up the pointers, but the dipper changes. It is now south-west of the star. In two months it will be directly under it. Thus it continues to revolve around the star, but the pointers always point towards the star.
To adjust the compass and take the sights are simple and easy, and I think you will learn to do it in a few days as well as I can. But you have got to study the books and learn how to calculate the area and angles. Now we will return to camp, and in the morning you can set the compass on a line North, forty-five degrees West.
Walter retired, but slept but little that night. He was highly elated at the prospect of learning to survey, had many misgivings as to whether he would succeed. But if study and perseverance had any virtue, he was bound to succeed.
As soon as it was light in the morning he was up and out with his compass. It was some time before he could adjust the compass to his satisfaction, but at last he accomplished it. He next liberated the needle, by means of the thumb screw.
The moment the needle began to move, he became excited. The idea of a dead piece of iron moving itself was something above his comprehension. He thought it must be moved by some supernatural power. Why, he thought to himself, did not Mr. Webb tell me where the force comes from? He talked as if neither himself or anybody else knew the cause! He next set the compass as he thought North, 45° West, but the sights pointed East of North, and he was pondering over this, when Webb arrived.
Good morning, Walter, I see that you are up and at it early. You have the compass very correctly adjusted. What course do you say it points? I told you North, 45° West. Is that it?
That is what the figures say, yet it points to the Northeast instead of Northwest.
You have fallen into a very common error. Now look and you will see that the letters E and N are reversed on the compass consequently when you wish to run N. W., the North end of the needle must be between the letters N. and W., and to run N. E., between E. and N. Now set the compass on the figures 45, between N. and W., and you will have the course we are running.
As if by instinct, the boy set the compass on the course indicated.
Well done, said Webb. Now let us get our breakfast, and then you can take charge of the compass.
Breakfast was eaten, and the whole party went to the place where they quit work the day before. By the direction of Webb, Walter set the compass over the centre stake, with the needle pointing N., 45° West.
Well done, boy! Now you see sights on both ends of the compass, with large holes. Between them are fine slots. Now you must look through both of these sights at the flag ahead, and when you can bring the two sights and the flag in range, you are right.
Walter motioned the flag to the point he thought in range, and said:
There! I guess that is right!
You must not guess; you must know, replied Webb. Let me look. You have made another common error. You have sighted through the large holes. Try again and look through the slots.
Walter looked again and saw that the flag was twenty feet out of line.
Go South! he cried. Now, Mr. Webb, I know that I am right.
CHAPTER X.
Asleep on Her Mother’s Grave—Going a Fishing—True Until Death.
We left Amy and Drake with their pets at the mother’s grave. To force Amy from the spot that contained her mother, was calculated to deprive her of her reason. Thus, Drake remained a silent listener to her grief. She refused to return to the house, or be comforted, and cried herself to sleep on her mother’s grave with the cat in her arms and Rolla by her side.
Drake sympathized with her. He said to himself: Would I have loved my mother so intently, had I been permitted to live with and love her? But I have no recollections of ever seeing her. When I was a babe I was stolen from her. If she loved her babe as Amy loved her mother, how terrible must have been her feelings when she learned that I had been stolen. Undoubtedly she thinks that I am dead. I had a father—perhaps brothers and sisters. I wonder if they would be glad to see me! I know my mother would. They tell me a mother’s love for her child never dies. My father sailed a ship then—perhaps he does now. If I should go where these ships sail, I might find him. If he made that figure on my breast, he would know me.
Thus Drake reasoned over the matter, and came to the conclusion to go in search of his parents.
Yes, he said to himself, in searching for them, I may find Amy’s friends.
Presently a shadow passed him, and looking up, saw Cahoonshee approaching.
Sleeping, he exclaimed, and as unconscious as the mother that sleeps beneath her. Perhaps she would be better off if she was as cold and lifeless as her mother. But such is not nature’s decree. She is saved for some purpose, for what, we know not. None of us can fathom the ways of the Great Spirit. We have buried the mother. Now let us take care of the child. Take her in your arms, Drake, and take her to the cabin.
Drake took her up as tenderly as a mother would her babe and carried her to the house. Rolla and the cat followed, mute and silent.
Amy was so overcome by her grief that she did not awake, and Drake laid her and her cat Walt on the bed.
Poor girl, said Betsy, she can’t give her mother up. But she must have something to eat. She has not eaten anything since her mother died.
Don’t wake her up, said Cahoonshee, let her have her cry and sleep out, and in the morning she will be more reconciled.
That night the parties talked over what they would do with Amy, and came to the conclusion to keep her in the Quick family until they could hear from her friends. That when they went on their farm at Milford, they would take Amy with them, that there she would have some opportunity to attend school, and mingle in society with those of her own sex.
When the family arose in the morning, Amy was up and gone. Instinct led Drake to her mother’s grave, where he found Amy and Rolla.
Amy was sad, but composed, and was engaged in decorating the grave with flowers gathered from the mountain side.
Good morning, Amy, I see you still mourn the loss of your mother.
Yes, she replied, mother did all she could for me while living. Now that she is dead, I will visit her and her grave. I shall keep the flowers fresh and the grass green on her grave as long as I can. Won’t you help me Drake?
Certainly, he replied. What can I do for you?
You can help me build a wall around the grave. Down where mother came from, they build a wall around the graves, and set a stone with the name on it. I want to do so by mama’s grave, and Rolla and I will come to see it every day.
Yes, replied Drake, Tom and I will build the wall, and Cahoonshee will set the stone. Come sister, go to the house with me. It is breakfast time. After breakfast, Tom and I will build the wall.
Amy was reluctant to leave the place that contained all that was dear to her. Drake unconsciously put his arm around her.
Come Amy, you still have friends. There are those that love you.
At breakfast, little or nothing was said. Amy ate a hearty breakfast, and seemed to be reconciled to her lot.
She was then informed of the conclusion that had been arrived at night before—that she was to live with them until her friends could be found—that they would return to their farm at Milford in a few days, and that she was to go with them.
Amy scarcely knew what to do or say. She did not want to leave her mother’s grave so soon. She wished to be where she could make it daily visits and keep the grass green.
I would rather stay here with you, she said. You have been very good to me and mother. Let me stay here and keep house for the boys, at the same time glancing at Drake.
The boys go with us, replied the elder Quick.
Then I will go, but I want the wall built around the grave before I go.
That shall be done to-day, said Drake. Come and tell me how you want it built.
May I call you brother? said Amy.
Yes, he replied, and I shall be proud to have such a brave sister, and involuntarily he placed his arm around Amy’s waist, and they walked to the grave in silence.
Tom followed, and a wall was soon laid around the ground that enclosed the sacred dead, and in a few days Cahoonshee erected a stone on which was inscribed “Here lies Mary, the mother of Amy Powers.”
In a few days they went to live on the Milford farm. But Tom was seldom at home. He did not like school or books. He seemed to like the company of the Indians better than he did his father’s home, and hunted and fished with them until he acquired their language and habits.
Not so with Drake. He employed every opportunity to acquire knowledge and improve his mind, and would listen for hours to Cahoonshee, as he recited history, science and tradition.
Amy was now just blooming into womanhood, being nearly sixteen years old, with a tall and commanding figure, with auburn hair and dark blue eyes, cheeks the color of a peach-blossom. Her hair hanging in ringlets over her shoulders, her eyes sparkled, and were a fair index to her mind. Lively, and like the most of her sex—talkative.
They remained on the farm during the summer season, and at the cabin on the Shinglekill during the trapping season.
A few days after they had moved on the Milford farm, Amy and Drake, at the edge of evening, went fishing in the Delaware river. Up to this time, nothing had been said to Amy about her home or former friends. Drake had long wished to hear her story, but out of delicacy had refrained from questioning her. Amy often spoke of the loss she had sustained in the death of her mother, but went no further. She seemingly wished to conceal from the world her parentage.
The water was bubbling at their feet. The wind whistled through the branches of the trees. The birds sang. The squirrels chattered, but Drake and Amy remained silent.
Now and then they would exchange glances toward each other, as much as to say:
“Why don’t you speak?”
Some time before this, Drake had resolved to go in search of his parents, but now he felt it his duty to stay and protect this orphan child.
Duty, is that all? don’t I love her? he said to himself in an undertone, but loud enough to be heard by Amy.
Love who? Who do you love? she remarked with a blush.
Drake blushed, but could think of nothing to say to cover his confusion.
Amy placed her arm about his neck, seized his hand, and gazed intently into his eyes.
You love somebody. I know you do. Do you feel just as I do.
Do you love some one? asked Drake.
Yes, she replied, laying her hand on his breast. Yes, brother, I do love, I did love, I ever shall love, and bursting into tears, she cried like a child, and it was several minutes before she could control her feelings to finish the sentence.
Drake could not understand this. At first he thought that she had reference to him. But the language “I do love, I did love, I ever shall love,” indicated, that young as she was, she had not escaped cupid’s dart.
Calm yourself, Amy, perhaps I can assist you. Is it Tom that you love? and are you crying because he would rather be with the Indians than with you?
No brother, I like Tom, but I don’t love him.
What difference is there between liking and loving? asked Drake.
Oh, I don’t know, brother, but it seems to me that I feel different toward Walter than I do toward Tom and you or any one else. I don’t know what makes me. I only know that I do.
Who is Walter? and where does he live? asked Drake.
He was Walter Wallace, and lived by us on the Callicoon.
But where is he now?
I don’t know—probably dead. Yet something tells me that he is alive and that I shall see him again.
When did you see him last? Drake inquired.
I saw him last standing on the bank of the Callicoon, but he could not get to us. Mother and I and the cat were on the raft, and the river was running between us. He acted as if he was trying to tell us something, but the water made such a noise we could not hear him.
He probably thinks you were drowned, replied Drake.
He may think so, but he don’t know it, and as long as he don’t know, he will wait and look for me. He was a brave, bold, good boy. He loved me, and I loved him, and we were to be married. Oh, brother, I think I can see him now, standing on the bank of the river, and looking at me. But Drake, you said to yourself, (but I heard it,) that you “loved her.” Now tell me all about it as plainly as I have told you. We are brother and sister. Neither of us have a mother or relative that we know of.
Drake remained silent.
Have I offended you? Have I asked too much? If so forgive me.
I have nothing to forgive. I have no one to love in the sense you put it. I will be content in liking—not loving.
What do you mean, brother? I don’t understand you. Your words imply more than you say. You can trust Amy.
Yes, dear girl, I can, and do trust you. When I said “I love her,” I meant you. I did not intend it for your ears. I was thinking whether I did not feel different toward you than I would toward a sister. I am glad that you told me you loved Walter Wallace. Now we understand each other. I will still like you. I will still be your brother and friend, and, if possible, I will find your lost lover.
Good and generous boy! exclaimed Amy, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him passionately. I hope you don’t love me as I do Walter. If you do, how miserable you must feel—how unhappy you must be. How I would feel to meet Walter and he should tell me that he liked me but did not love me—that he loved another. But that can’t be. He loves me. I know it? I feel it here! (placing her hand upon her heart.)
Amy, said Drake, you are a good generous girl. Few of your sex would have been so honest. I have promised to find your lover if possible. I intend in a short time to go in search of my own parents, and I will then inquire for your friends. But so far you have said nothing to me about your parents that would assist me in finding them. Are you willing to give me a history of them as far as you know?
Yes, as far as I know, but I don’t know much about them. I have heard that my grand-father lived in England, and was very rich. That father married mother against his wish. That he gave father his choice to leave and abandon mother, or leave his house. Father refused, and was disinherited. Then father and mother came to this country and settled in Connecticut, not far from Manhattan, until they moved to Callicoon, and that is all I know about it.
That will help me, replied Drake. Now that we understand each other and ourselves, let us return to the house. And placing his arm around her, they returned in silence.
Before this interview, Drake had regarded Amy as a friendless orphan, and felt an interest in her welfare. Although he called her sister, and was addressed by her as brother, he was ignorant of the ties that usually exist between brother and sister. He never enjoyed the society of brother or sister, father or mother, and it was this that led him to remark “don’t I love her.” But now his eyes were open. Now he could understand what love was, “pure and unalloyed.” Now he could understand what had prompted his feelings toward Amy. His feelings were not of pure friendship for the orphan child he had promised to protect. He had a selfish motive. Her frank sincerity and child-like simplicity had raised her in his estimation. He saw in the girl, a noble, generous, woman, wife and mother. Yet he realized that she loved Walter Wallace, and be he dead or alive, she would never love another. She would only like him as a brother, and with that he must be content.
But I have promised to be her friend, and her friend I will be.
It cost Drake an effort to come to this conclusion, and it showed that he was a high-minded, generous man, and could appreciate Amy’s love for Walter, by his own love for Amy.
Noble Girl. Worthy of the love of Walter Wallace or any other man.
CHAPTER XI.
The Second Lesson—Completing His Education—Found New Friends—The Mutiny—Death of Sambo.
That is bold language boy. You say you “know that you are right.” There are but a few things in this world that we positively know. We are likely to be deceived in many ways. Sometimes the eye is imperfect, and the mind clouded. Sometimes our eager desire to accomplish an object, aided by our imagination, leads us astray. Now look and see if you can see the white spot on the flag staff?
No, I can’t see the white spot, but I can see the red.
Yet you knew that you were right.
Walter was confused.
I think that I am right.
Do you know that you are right?
His confusion increased.
Now place the staff so that you can see both the white and red, then you will be right. You are now looking at a bunch of red leaves.
Walter felt chagrined. The flag was moved about five feet and then he could see it from top to bottom.
You are right now, replied Webb.
But how did you know it wasn’t right? You stood behind the compass, but did not look through it.
I knew it by that tall pine tree on top of yonder hill. I discovered a mile back that the tree was exactly in line, and if you will look back, you will see a dead hemlock tree, with the bark off. By noticing objects both ahead and behind, you can detect the least variation.
Walter comprehended the explanation.
If I understand you, the needle must set on the figures 45°, W., and looking forward through the slots, the eye must strike the staff and pine tree, and looking back, the hemlock tree must be in line exactly.
Right boy. Now move on to the flag and take a new sight.
The compass was set at the next station by Walter, with great care. Before him, he could see the staff and pine tree, and behind he could see the dead hemlock.
Well done, boy! exclaimed Webb. You have mastered your first lesson. You can take charge of the instrument now for the season. We shall run this course for the next month, then we will go into winter quarters, and you can go into the books, and by spring, you can take charge of the survey.
Walter’s eyes glistened with satisfaction, both for the praise and promises of his employer. From this time to the close of the season, Walter took charge of the work, and gave entire satisfaction to his employer.
About the first of November, they went on board a flat-boat and floated down the Delaware. Amy, Walter’s cat, accompanied them. They arrived at Philadelphia on the fifth day, and immediately proceeded to the residence of Mr. Webb, where Walter was well received and kindly treated, and at once commenced his school days, and earnestly studied mathematics, geometry and trigonometry. He threw his whole soul into his studies, and worked night and day to solve the difficult problems. Although he was in a city of fashion, he could not be induced to enter society. His books and Amy were his only companions.
Thus, the winter passed. In the spring he returned to the Minisink country to survey.
Thus, four years passed—surveying in the summer, and studying at school in the winter. During this time he had not only mastered surveying and civil engineering, but had acquired a knowledge of navigation that rendered him capable of sailing a ship around the world.
Having now arrived at the age of twenty-one, he was his own master, and more than that, he was master of himself.
He was now to choose what should be his future course. One great incentive of his life was to find Amy or her friends. He knew that her grand-father lived in England. He wished to go there, but how to accomplish it, he did not know. Like a dutiful child, he asked his old friend and preceptor, Charles Webb.
Would you like a position on a ship? he asked.
Yes, he replied, if it was one in the line of promotion.
Leave that to me, replied Webb. I will see that you are promoted in the start. You understand navigation as well as any Captain in the English Navy, and in a few months you can learn to work a ship. After that all will be easy. I have a particular friend that is in port now, Captain Davis, of His Majesty’s Ship, “Reindeer.” I think he would like you. His wife generally sails with him. His only child was stolen from him twenty years ago by the Indians, while they were on shore at Kingston, on the Hudson.
I will follow your advice, said Walter.
Then no time must be lost, as I do not know what moment the ship may sail. I will request him to call on me this evening, and he hastily wrote the following note:
“Will Captain Davis honor his old friend by calling this evening. Charles Webb.”
There! Take that and go down to the dock. There you will find a boat in charge of an officer. Hand him this letter, and he will deliver it to the Captain, who is on board the Reindeer, anchored in the stream.
As Walter approached the river, he saw a ship lying at anchor. A curious feeling came over him. The tall masts, the white sails, the ports in the sides with bristling cannon projecting.
Is that to be my future home? he thought to himself. Am I to plough the briny deep? Will that bear me to the grand-father of my Amy?
Bang! went a gun, and a cloud of smoke issued from the ship’s side. A moment after, a boat left the ship, and was rowed towards the shore. Walter watched it with interest. When it came in full view, he saw that four sailors pulled at the oars, dressed in blue uniform. In the stern sat two men clad in the uniform of English Naval officers, the elder of which was smoking a cigar. It occurred to him that it was to one of these men that he was to hand the letter. As soon as the boat landed, the two officers stepped on the wharf, and the boat pulled out in the stream. Walter advanced, raising his cap:—
Gentlemen, can you inform me what officer commands the boat that has just set you two gentlemen on shore?
The two looked at each other as if in doubt, when the younger replied:
This gentleman is Captain.
Not so fast, replied Davis. I am Captain of the ship—you are Captain of this boat. What can we do for you young man?
Mr. Webb requested me to hand this letter to the officer having charge of the boat, at the same time presenting the letter.
The younger of the two took it.
Here, Captain, this is for you.
The Captain read it.
Are you acquainted with Mr. Webb young man?
Yes, he replied, in a sweet, mild voice. I have been in his employ for several years.
How is that? asked the Captain. I have made his house my home for several years, but I never saw you there.
That was because you were in port during the warm season. At that time I was in the wilderness surveying for Mr. Webb.
The Captain looked at the young man in astonishment.
What is your name?
Walter Wallace.
Is Mr. Webb at home? Being answered in the affirmative, he said to the officer at his side:
Send a boat for me to-morrow at eight. Remember we weigh anchor at ebb.
The officer raised his hat to his superior and walked away. Then at a given signal the boat returned to the shore and the officer stepped on board.
The Captain stood and looked at his ship as it gently rocked in the swell of the river.
A beauty! A beauty! Handsomer than the Reindeer it is named after. Do you return to Webb’s? asked the Captain, addressing Walter.
Yes sir.
Then we will walk along together.
Walter felt awkward. Here he was walking along side of a large, handsome man, dressed in the rich, glittering uniform of the British Navy. He was recognized by the passers-by—at least he was saluted by their raising their hats.
But little had been said in their walk from the river to Webb’s. Arriving there, Walter entered and seated the Captain in the parlor, while he went to notify Webb.
Ah, boy, back so soon? I did not think that you would meet the boat until after the firing of the sun-down gun.
Walter explained how he met the boat as it landed—the delivery of the letter—that one of the gentlemen that came on the boat had accompanied him home, and was now in the parlor waiting.
Did you learn his name?
No, but I learned he was the Captain of the ship.
That is Captain Davis himself. To him I expect to trust my ward. You remain here until I call you.
Then Webb went to the parlor.
Good day Captain, ahead of time, but always welcome.
No, I am just in time. I had to come now or never—at least not until my return from England.
England! exclaimed Webb, I thought you were going into winter quarters.
So I supposed, but this morning I received orders to sail to-morrow.
Then I have no time to accomplish the object I had in view in sending for you.
State your object, and if possible, I will help you accomplish it.
I sent for you in relation to the young man you have often heard me speak of, that I found in the Minisink wilderness.
Is that the young man that handed me the letter?
Yes.
The fellow that killed the panther, and fell in love with the cat?
Precisely. Only the cat is the namesake or representative of the girl he fell in love with.
Oh, I remember it all, replied Davis. In what way can I assist either you or him?
I wish to procure a situation for him on your ship.
In what capacity?
I will leave that to you.
Of course that will depend on his qualifications. He could not have learned any of the duties of a seaman in the wilderness you found him.
Not all the duties, Captain, certainly not. Yet there are many things that are indispensable to a seaman that has been learned on land—yes even in the howling wilderness. But we will call him. You can examine him and then decide.
Walter was waiting on the stoop, when he was addressed by Sambo.
Massa Walt—Massa Webb want you in de parlor. Too bad Walt—too bad. They are going to take you off in big ship. Sambo never see Walt any more. Walt get drowned. Walt never come back to see Sambo or cat any more.
I shall take the cat with me, replied Walter.
Dey won’t let you do dat. Mighty ’ticular on ship. Dey kill Amy and throw her overboard in the sea, an’ if Massa say boo, dey whip him wid a cat ob nine tails, put irons on his feet and stow him down in de hole wid de rats.
Have no fears, Sambo, if I go, the cat will go with me. That is a condition the Captain must agree to before I put my foot on board.
Oh, Massa, promises like pie crust—“made to be broken.” What Massa do when three hundred miles to sea, two or three hundred to do what de Captain says—Walt overboard—one man less, dat is all. Walt not missed—ship sail on. Captain don’t like you now—say you come out of de woods—don’t know anything. Stay on shore, Massa—stay wid Sambo an’ de cat. Captain tink you big baby—he say you kill panther and love cat.
Walter started for the parlor in an uneasy state of mind. As simple as Sambo was, he had succeeded in raising doubts in his mind, as to the propriety of his going to sea.
Captain Davis, I have the pleasure of introducing to you Walter Wallace, the boy I have told you so much about.
I am happy to meet and form your acquaintance, young man, and it will not be my fault if we do not become fast friends.
Walter took his hand timidly and said:
I trust such may be the case.
I learn from Mr. Webb that you would like to ship on board the Reindeer.
Mr. Webb has so advised me.
What position would you prefer?
Any that I am capable of filling, was his prompt reply.
Have you any knowledge of vessels?
None, except what I have learned from the books.
Put the questions to the boy directly, suggested Webb.
That would do if I was examining him for Sailing Master, replied the Captain, but it is not expected that the young man has studied or knows anything about navigation.
I am willing to be examined on that point, rejoined Walter.
The Captain was surprised at the cool confidence of the boy, but proceeded with his examination. He soon found that theoretically, the young man was perfect. He also learned that book learning was not to be despised, for Walter was not only master of the principles of navigation, but could locate almost all the continents, seas and shoals of the world. He could name the different parts of a ship, and the rigging employed in sailing it.
That will do for the present, young man. You can retire, and I will talk over the matter with Mr. Webb.
Walter left the room.
Mr. Webb, this young man is a prodigy. When, how and where did he acquire this knowledge? I never understood that you were a navigator.
But you forget, Captain, that I am a surveyor and civil engineer, and that before I could trust him to do my work, I had to know that he understood the principles, and from surveying to navigation, there is but one step, and that step he has taken.
But, rejoined Captain Davis, in surveying through the woods, no great accuracy is required, but at sea, accuracy is required. It is essential to the safety of the ship. And in case we are driven from our course by the wind or currents, we must determine our exact latitude and longitude, otherwise we are lost. And this youngster makes this calculation to a fraction.
The boy’s precision, said Webb, is owing to his early education. I taught him, that in surveying, there was no such thing as “good enough,” that all his work must be done exactly right. In a word, he must know that he was right. At sea, circumstances over which you have no control, may drive you from your course. Not so on land. An error there is carelessness, and often the entire work has to be done over again. But at sea, you take your bearings and start anew. And it was for these reasons that I impressed on the young man’s mind the necessity of accuracy.
And the result shows that you have succeeded, replied the Captain. Webb, I really like the boy, and would like to give him a berth on board of the Reindeer suitable to his attainments, but you know how it is in the English Navy. My officers would be struck with horror, to be introduced to this back woods-man as one of their equals.
That, the young man does not require. Neither would he accept the berth, replied Webb. What he wants is a place that is in the line of promotion, and work his way up. Give him that chance, and he will succeed.
There is just where the difficulty lies, replied Davis. The son of some Count, Countess, Lord or Admiral, having neither brains or attainments, can pass the Board of Admiralty on the strength of their name, while the man of worth is rejected as incompetent. I cannot place him before the mast among that rough element. Neither will I give him a berth among the marines. I like the boy, and would prefer his society in the cabin. Why I take such a liking to him, I do not know, unless it is that he puts me in mind of my own baby boy that was stolen from me years ago.
Is he alive?
Possibly yes—probably no. How I would reverence the man that had received, reared and educated him as you have done by this child of the forest. Webb, cannot I adopt him as my son? Cannot I take him in the place of my own long lost boy? Cannot I be a father to him, as I trust someone has been to my child? Then I can protect him, and save him from insult and harm. Yes, that is my plan. I will take him on board as my guest, if not as my son, and trust the future for the consequences. Call Mr. Wallace in.
Not so fast Captain, said Webb. If you take the boy, you must take his incumbrances with him.
Incumbrances? What do you mean?
I mean that he has got a cat that he won’t leave behind—a namesake of a little girl that he loved in the mountains.
That is all easy, replied the Captain, my wife has three or four in the cabin now, and she finds much enjoyment in petting them. One more won’t sink the ship.
Walter stepped into the room with the cat in his arms.
Well, young man, said the Captain, we have settled your case. You and your cat are to go on board with me, and you are to be the guests of myself and wife until I can find a proper place for you. How does that suit you?
You are very kind, Captain to make that offer, but it does not suit me. I would prefer to be somebody, and have something to do.
I understand your motives, young man, and promise that in a short time you shall be somebody, as you call it.
That is all right, rejoined Webb. Captain Davis will be a father to you, and when we meet again, I hope to address you as Lieutenant Wallace.
How would you like to change your name from Wallace to Davis? inquired Davis.
For what purpose? asked Walter.
That you may appear as my son, and command the respect of all on board.
That would be deception, Captain.
The Captain felt chagrined. He had not learned the real character of the boy in which he had taken such an interest. He saw at a flash that Walter did not understand his meaning. He meant the offer as a feeler, to see if Walter would consent to his adoption and take his name. He scarcely knew how to extricate himself from the difficulty he had placed himself in by proposing to Walter to change his name. The words “That would be deception, Captain,” still rang in his ears, and raised the boy in his estimation.
Webb noticed the Captain’s embarrassment and went to his relief.
Walter, I think you had better accept the Captain’s proposition.
Which one of them? he asked excitedly. To go on board of the ship, or change my name?
To go on board the ship as the guest of Captain Davis and wife. Say no more about the name or position at present Let time determine that.
Father, said Walter addressing Webb, I rely on you in this matter. You command and I’ll obey.
I command nothing. I merely advise. You are your own master now, and have a right to choose for yourself. Things have changed since we met on the Callicoon. Then you was a stripling of a boy, without home, parents or shelter. But now you are a man, noble, generous and good. Go with Captain Davis, and be to him what you have been to me—a noble, generous son.
Father! exclaimed Walter passionately, am I to you what your words imply?
Yes, and more. I feel as if you were bone of my bone, and blood of my blood. You are the only child I ever knew—the only one that ever called me father.
Tears trickled down Walter’s cheeks, and throwing his arms around Webb’s neck exclaimed:
Yes, father—more than a father, what I am, what I shall be, I owe to you. How can I leave you?
Captain Davis had been an interested spectator of the scene of love and affection that passed between Walter and Webb. The word father had fallen with significance on his ear. Never had he been addressed by that endearing name, and he now felt that he would give his ship and commission to change places with Webb—to have those manly arms embrace his neck, and hear the endearing word father addressed to him. Rising, he took Walter by the hand:—
Have no fears, young man, love and serve me as you have my friend Webb, and what a father can or should do for a son, I will do for you—even to the command of the Reindeer. Be ready to-morrow at two, when myself and wife will call for you.
So soon, Captain?
Yes, that is our orders. We sail at ebb to-morrow.
When Captain Davis had left, Walter approached Webb and said:
This is sudden—unexpected, a very sudden change in my affairs.
No more sudden than the killing of the panther—the water spout, and falling into my hands.
A lucky fall for me, father.
But now you will fall into good hands. Captain Davis is a gentleman, and already feels interested in you, as if you were his own child, and would like to have you take his name.
That can never be. My name is Walter Wallace, and ever shall be.
But you must be getting ready to depart. Sambo will assist you in packing and removing your trunk to the vessel.
Sambo had been an attentive listener to what had passed between the parties, and looked upon the whole matter with distrust.
Will Massa Webb excuse Sambo? ejaculated the negro.
Walter looked at him in surprise. He had always been a faithful, loyal servant, and seemed to be dearly attached to Walter.
Certainly, Sambo, if you can give a good reason, said Webb.
Give reason? Yes, Sambo give the goodest of reasons. Ship sail to-morrow—to-morrow hangman’s day, to-morrow Friday. Bad day—bad luck—wind blow—ship sink—Massa Walt get drowned—sharks eat him up—Sambo see young Massa no more. Here the faithful black broke down, and cried like a child.
Sambo is not to be blamed for his fears. He believed that Friday was an unlucky day. Nor was his superstitious belief uncommon. Sailors, as a rule, regarded it as a day to be dreaded, and nothing but the most rigid discipline would compel them to weigh anchor and leave port on Friday.
Never mind, said Walter, we have been friends too long to quarrel now. I will pack my own things.
You’ll see, Massa, you’ll see, and bursting into tears, left the room.
That night was a busy and anxious one for Walter. On the morrow he was to leave his home and friends, and trust himself among strangers, and the treacherous waters of the Atlantic. The valley of the Hudson, and the grandeur of the Delaware were to be hid from his view.
His thoughts were on the Callicoon, and the lovely girl that passed from his sight on the raft. He wished to behold the place once more before he left his native shore.
Oh, Amy—my baby—boy and manly love—shall I ever see you more? Did the rolling, rocking, surging waves of the mad Callicoon cast you on some friendly shore? Have you, like me, found a protector? Are you, like me, hoping, praying, trusting, that your Walt is alive, and that some day we shall meet again? Noble, generous girl. It would be treason against nature and the laws of love to doubt you. Yes dear Amy, you live. I feel it. Something tells me—I know not what—that you love and pray for me. May God grant my prayer, that your prayer may be answered, that we may be in fact, as we are in heart, “twain one flesh.”
Thus did Walter pass his last night on shore, communing with his thoughts about that which occupied his whole soul.
Promptly at the time appointed, Captain Davis and wife called.
This is Mrs. Davis, my wife, and this is Mr Wallace, the young man that is to accompany us.
Mrs. Davis extended her hand and said:
I am happy to meet you, Mr. Wallace. I have heard the Captain speak so much of you, that I fell in love before I saw you.
I am afraid that I shall make the Captain jealous before the voyage is over.
No danger of that, humorously replied the Captain, at least the love would be all on one side. Walter’s heart is steeled against feminine charms and womanly affection. If I am rightly informed, his affections are bestowed on a female cat.
Walter’s eyes flashed fire. Davis discovered his mistake, and added:
But I am also informed that the cat is a keepsake or namesake of his boyish love. Well, well. I suppose I used to have some such feelings toward you, when I was a boy.
Where is this wonderful cat? asked Mrs. Davis.
Here, said Sambo, dropping the cat at her feet. Dis ’ere, be Miss Ame.
Beautiful! lovely! charming! exclaimed Mrs. Davis.
Now, Mrs. Davis, exclaimed the Captain, don’t you fall in love with that cat: If you do there will be war in the cabin.
And I will be the victor, if there is anything in numbers. I have two or three now.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
That is the signal for all on board, exclaimed Davis authoritatively. Now, Mr. Webb, please walk with me. Walter will accompany my wife, and you, Sambo, escort the cat.
The parties started for the wharf in the order indicated.
As the party left the door, Mrs. Davis took Walter’s arm. This was embarrassing for him, as he had always held himself aloof of their company, and what little he had seen of them in society had not favorably impressed him. In fact, his Ideal of woman was centered on one he had not seen for years and perhaps he would never see again.
Mrs. Davis attributed his silence to the fact that he was leaving his home and the scenes of his childhood to go, he knew not where, and for the purpose of awakening him, said:
Mr. Wallace, you must not feel so sad at this parting. I am sure that you will be pleased with the ocean voyage, and before we return, you will have an opportunity to see most of the cities of the world.
That will be interesting, he replied, yet to leave home and friends, to go forth, I know not where, or scarcely who I go with, is calculated to make me despondent.
But you do know who you go with. You go with Captain Davis and wife. In them you will find true friends. I know that I shall love you. Had I retained my own sweet babe that was stolen from me years ago, he would be like you, a man. Walter, will you take the place of that boy? Will you love me? Will you call me mother?
Lady, you neither know yourself nor me. There is a gulf between us. You belong to the rich, powerful and educated. I belong to the poor. You came from London, I from the woods. Tell me, Madam, where there is—where there can be anything in common between us?
Everything, Walter, everything. My boy was stolen by the Indians, and if he lives, like you, he must be deprived of civilized society. Like you, he once had a mother to love and caress him. Like you, he has no mother now. Like you he must depend on strangers. Like you, he may have a deep seated love in his heart for some person that once existed, but now exists only in his hopes or imagination. What a consolation it would be to know that he still lives—that some good, noble woman was acting toward him the part of a mother. And as I would wish others to do by my boy, so do I wish to do by you.
Walter was affected by this pleading. He was convinced that Mrs. Davis knew his history, and his deep, undying love for Amy. He faltered for a moment only:
Mother, as you wish it, so it shall be.
Bless you, boy, bless you. Now I shall have a child to love, and shall be loved in return. Oh, Walter, how happy we shall be when we get out on the broad, blue Atlantic, as there is a young lady going with us—the niece of the Lord of the Admiralty.
The parties were now approaching the wharf. In the stream lay the Reindeer, gently rocking at anchor, bedecked with flags.
It was generally known that the ship sailed that day, and the inhabitants of Philadelphia were generally out to see her depart. As they approached, they saw that the wharf was lined with people, and that some of them were engaged in a deadly struggle. The marines were trying to drive on board a number of sailors that were crazed with rum. Oaths, and imprecations were to be heard above the splashing water. The sailors refused to leave port on Friday. Ordinarily their superstition would cause them to demur. But now, being maddened by rum, they revolted to a man, and acted like blood-thirsty demons.
Captain Davis was unarmed, but he saw that something must be done quickly, or the mutineers would clear the wharf and become masters of the situation.
His Second Lieutenant was trying, in vain, to reason with the men, but they threatened and derided him.
Captain Davis threw himself among them, and in a stentorian voice cried:
Silence! men! Silence!
We will silence you! said a burly, brutal, drunken sailor drawing his knife from the sheath and sprang at the Captain, who was neither armed or prepared to defend himself.
The knife was raised and, about to strike him to the heart, when Walter sprang forward, and with one well directed blow under the assassin’s ear, knocked him off the dock, and his body splashed in the water.
Bloody land lubber! exclaimed half-a-dozen voices, as they all rushed upon him.
Single handed he would have been more than a match for any bully on board of the Reindeer. But to contend with a dozen armed monsters, whose every faculty was crazed with rum, rendered his case hopeless. Still he struck right and left, and with each blow a man fell.
Take that! cried one of the drunken demons, aiming his knife to reach his heart.
Up to this time, Sambo had been a silent spectator. But now, seeing his young master in serious danger, he threw himself between them, receiving the blow in his breast that was intended for his master.
I told you so, Massa Walt, I told you so! and fell dead at his feet.
This added fuel to the flames. Two of the remaining sailors grappled with him.
Charge! men! Charge! came from a person not before seen.
One of Walter’s antagonists fell, but the other held him by the throat. Now came the tug of war. The result depended on the strength of muscle. The fight goes on. They get nearer the dock, both exerting themselves to throw the other overboard. They both fell, and for a moment are buried in the briny deep. When they came to the surface, Walter had the sailor by the throat, holding him off at arm’s length. His face was black, and his tongue protruded. Walter withdrew his hand, and the sailor sank.
At this moment a boat appeared as if by magic, and Walter was drawn on board in an unconscious condition.
Thank you, Lieutenant, thank you! exclaimed Captain Davis. But for your timely arrival we should have all been murdered.
Not at all, Captain. I but did a sailor’s duty. I both saw and heard what was going on, and ordered a file of marines to your rescue.
Well planned and skillfully executed, said Davis. Now iron these mutineers, and place them in the cage until they can be lawfully disposed of.
Order being restored, embarkation commenced. Mrs. Davis sat in the stern, holding Walter’s head in her lap, while the Captain stood near the centre, with the cat Amy in his arms.
Arriving on board, the Captain ordered a council of his officers to see what was their opinion about leaving port that night, and to learn, if possible, whether this had been a preconcerted mutiny, or whether it was caused by drinking too much rum.
The First Lieutenant said he would vouch for every man on board. The mutineers, he said, are safely ironed, and the rest of the men are loyal.
Weigh anchor! said the Captain to his subordinate. To hesitate on these drunken threats would be tantamount to surrendering my command.
In less time than it takes to write it, the anchor is weighed, the sails spread, and the Reindeer moves majestically toward the broad Atlantic.
A gentle breeze drove the Reindeer through the rippled water, and just as the sun was setting behind the western hills, Captain Davis had the satisfaction of knowing that his ship was safely out to sea.
Yet the Captain felt uneasy. The conduct of the men on shore raised some suspicion in his mind that trouble was brewing. In his officers he had perfect confidence.
The night was clear, with just wind enough to fill the sails, and the Captain and his First Lieutenant were sitting on the quarter-deck, discussing the events of the day.
By the way, Captain, who was that tall, noble-looking young man, that faced the whole company of cut-throats, and laid them out right and left, as a boy would so many marbles?
That is Walter Wallace, the foster child of my friend Charles Webb.
Wallace—that is a familiar name to me. Do you know what branch of the Wallace family he descended from?
No. Neither do I think he knows himself. Webb found him an orphan, alone, in the woods, and adopted him in his family. They lived at a place called Callicoon, not far from the Delaware river. The river overflowed the banks and drowned all but him.
Powers, for such was the Lieutenant’s name, manifested some feeling at this revelation, and exclaimed:
Is it possible?
Is what possible? asked the Captain.
Is it possible that I have found my sister’s child?
Sister’s child? exclaimed Davis. How could a sister of yours be living in such a wilderness?
By following the dictation of her conscience, and the man she loved, replied the Lieutenant. The story is short and quickly told. A brother and sister married a brother and sister. William Wallace married my sister, Amelia Powers, and Thomas Powers, my brother, married Mary Wallace. For this act they were driven from their home, crossed the Atlantic, and settled in Connecticut. From there they moved west to a place called Callicoon. I received several letters from them for several years, and then all correspondence stopped. I then employed some of the men that trade in furs to make inquiries about them. They reported that both families had resided on the Callicoon, but were all dead, having been washed away and drowned by a water spout at the head of the stream. The last that we heard of them, Wallace had a son named Walter, and Powers a daughter named Amy.
You are right, Lieutenant, you must be right. The noble soul that now lies in my cabin unconscious, is your nephew, your sister’s son.
Then let us hasten to him.
No; not at present. The Surgeon has commanded the strictest silence.
Let me see him, Captain, if it is but for a single moment. Let me see my wronged sister’s son.
Not for worlds, Lieutenant, not for worlds. That one moment might be fatal. That one moment might destroy our anticipations of the future. He is in good hands. My wife and your sister Cora are at his side administering to his wants.
How came he to be of your party? asked the Lieutenant.
At the request of Mr. Webb, who reared and educated him.
His education must be limited.
No, replied the Captain, not limited, but extended. No man on this ship is his superior—few his equal.
This will be new and awkward business for the ladies, different from nursing cats—By the way Captain, I see that you have added another to the list. The one you brought on board appears to have passed her three-score-and-ten. Its coat is as white as snow.
That cat, replied the Captain, has a history, and bears the name of your brother’s daughter, Amy, and Walter would fight for that cat as he would for the one she is named after, and I had to consent that the cat should come on board before he would agree to become my guest.
Perhaps that is the boy’s weakness—that in his younger days, he fell in love with the namesake of this cat.
There is no perhaps about it. It is a fact. Webb informed me, that when he and Walter were viewing the scene of the destruction of his home, the cat came to him, and that then and there Walter raised his hand to heaven, and swore in the presence of his God and his desolate home, that he would never love other than Amy Powers.
And does that love still burn? asked the Lieutenant.
Yes, replied the Captain, and it is for that reason that he sails with us. He is in search of Amy or her friends. And he has found the latter. God grant that he may be as successful in finding the former. Now you must excuse me, as I must go and look after my charge.
CHAPTER XII.
Moccasin Tracks in the Sand—Cahoonshee at the Climbing Tree—Indian Craft and White Man’s Cunning. Cahoonshee at the Stake—Quick to the Rescue.
We left Amy and Drake at the house of the elder Quick, on the banks of the river at Milford. They now understood themselves and each other. By degrees Amy’s sadness wore away, and she became lively and cheerful. When an opportunity offered, she went with Drake on hunting and fishing excursions, and learned to use the rifle with the dexterity of an old hunter. Like most of her sex, she was fond of dress, and chose the most gaudy colors for her attire.
The trapping season had now arrived, and the parties went back to the Shinglekill.
Cahoonshee and Quick had not met for several months.
I fear, said Cahoonshee, that there will be trouble between our neighbors, the Delawares, and the Salamanques.
Why? asked Quick.
I saw on the banks of the Mongaup, to-day, the print of a moccasin that plainly told me what tribe they belonged to.
Sly dogs, those Salamanques. They wiped out the Cahoonshees, replied Quick.
And we must assist the Delawares to wipe them out now.
How?
Find out what they intend to do, and then act accordingly. I think their advance lie concealed in the bowl. (A hollow on the Pennsylvania side of the river opposite Mongaup.)
Follow me, and we will soon know.
The parties threw their guns over their shoulders, and started for the Hawk Nest.
Seating themselves on the pinnacle, Cahoonshee pointed up the river.
Does my brother see that tall pine standing on the edge of the rocks, with dead limbs in the top? A few feet from the top of that tree is the bowl. In that bowl lie concealed the destroyers of my race. Brother, do you see the smothered smoke that arises from their Council fires? I must hear their plans.
Yes, and lose your life in the adventure, said Quick.
Possibly yes—probably no. But they must be circumvented. Follow me.
They both started down the rocks, and reaching the river, stepped into a canoe, and paddled for the Climbing Tree. ([See Appendix.])
CLIMBING TREE
It was now dark. Quick paddled the canoe through the still waters of Long Track, through Butler’s Falls, and entered Mongaup Eddy, and continued until they were opposite the Climbing Tree.
Not a word had been spoken. Cahoonshee stepped out of the canoe, and as he did so whispered in his companion’s ear:
Watch, and remain silent! and then disappeared in the impenetrable darkness.
Cahoonshee climbed the tree and came in full view of the Salamanques. They had gathered there in large numbers, and had with them their squaws and papooses. The fire at which the Chiefs sat was within a few feet of where Cahoonshee stood, and he could hear what they said as easily as if he had sat in their midst. It was mid-night when the Council broke up. Cahoonshee returned to the river.
Don’t use a paddle. Let the canoe float. These rocks have ears.
Not a word was spoken. Cahoonshee sat with his head in his hands, thinking of the past and meditating on the future.
Brother, said Cahoonshee, a plot is laid to destroy the Delawares. If the Salamanques succeed, there will not be one left to tell the tale. But it must not be. The white man’s reason and the red man’s cunning must thwart their plans.
And have you a plan?
I have one that will wipe the Salamanques from the face of the earth.
Can I assist you brother?
Yes. Day after to-morrow the blow is to be struck. The Delawares must be notified and prepared, not only to defend themselves, but to annihilate their foes. To-night I will visit the Delawares. To-morrow, you and the boys go to the round, white rock on Mount William. Carry with you all the strings that you can make from bear, deer and eel skins. Prepare a large quantity of pine knots, and I will meet you there at sun-down to-morrow.
Cahoonshee stepped into his canoe and noiselessly drifted down the river, and just as the silver streak of morning began to appear, he landed at the village of the Delawares, at the angle of the Neversink and Delaware rivers.
He immediately proceeded to the wigwam of the Chief. Early as it was, the Chief was up, and sat at the door smoking. Hawk Eye, for such was the Chief’s name, heard a rustling in the bushes, and looking up, saw the towering form of Cahoonshee approaching.
Good morning, brother; I knew that you were coming.
How knew you that? But one knew of my visit here, and he did not know my motive.
Say not so, my brother. The Great Spirit knows all, and He tells Hawk Eye in a dream.
What did the Great Spirit say?
The Great Spirit tell me in a dream that Cahoonshee had a revelation for me, and I arose early to meet you.
It is well. I am here with news, not from Heaven, but from the Salamanques.
May the Great Spirit protect us then. We can die like our fathers! exclaimed Hawk Eye.
Yes, and fight like your fathers, rejoined Cahoonshee.
Hawk Eye cast his eyes to the ground and meditated for a moment and said:
We are feeble and count by the hundred. They are strong and count by the thousand. What the Cahoonshees now are we soon will be.
What mean you, brother?
I mean, replied the Chief, that the Cahoonshees once lived on these lands, hunted through these hills and fished in these streams. Not so now. Their bodies lie in the earth. Their scalps dangle in the lodges of the Salamanques. One, and only one, is left.
Will the Delawares act like squaws and let the Salamanques take their scalps?
If it is the will of the Great Spirit.
It is not the will of the Great Spirit.
Has Cahoonshee a sign?
Yes, and you shall see it.
When, and where? brother.
To-morrow, replied Cahoonshee. When you hear the first war-whoop, look to the north-west, and you will see a ball of fire fall from Heaven and strike the earth, and run from Mount William to the Delaware river. That is the sign. The Great Spirit has decreed it. To-morrow Cahoonshee will have his revenge. To-morrow the Salamanques go on the war-path for the last time. To-morrow the rivers will run with blood. Hear me Hawk Eye! The Salamanques are in every ambush between here and Lackawaxen. They are well prepared with canoes and rafts. At the rise of the moon to-night they will float down the river. Their main force will land at the brook just above you. Their younger braves will pass by and return up the Mahackamack (Neversink) to your rear. Those at the brook will set the woods on fire on the south side of the brook, and as the smoke is seen to rise above the trees, the warriors on the Neversink will rush on your village.
Not one of us can escape, mournfully exclaimed Hawk Eye.
You shall all escape. But the Salamanques shall roast in their own fire.
Cahoonshee wise. Learned from the white man. Tell Hawk Eye what to do?
That is what I am here for. Send the women, children and aged to the Holicot Glen, above Peanpack. Send a part of your forces on the east side of the Neversink, and the rest of them on the west side of the Delaware. When the ball of fire I have spoken of shall roll along from Mount William to the river, then let your braves advance. The Salamanques cannot escape. They will be between two fires, one on their east, and one on their west. Then let your braves advance. They will be between two fires, and your braves in their front.
It shall be as you say, replied Hawk Eye.
’Tis well. Watch for the ball of fire! and Cahoonshee passed out of sight.
At this time the angle of land lying between the Delaware and Neversink rivers on which the City of Port Jervis now stands was one tangled forest, in the centre of which was located the camping grounds of the Delawares. The banks of the river were studded with lofty white pine trees, whose tops reached far toward the Heavens. On the south side of the brook, the majestic willow towered Heavenward, with their branches bending to and taken root in the earth. Through these willows the wild grape vine had twined and laced itself, its creeping branches forming a barrier to man and beast, but fuel for the elements.
The Delawares had moved their effects, women and children to the Holicot Glen, and placed their forces on the opposite side of the two rivers, retaining sufficient numbers at their forsaken village to keep the camp fires blazing through the night.
In the meantime, the Salamanques had marshalled their forces, and when the earth became enshrouded in the mantle of night, they embarked on board of canoes and rafts and silently floated down the river, and before the break of day had safely landed north of the Spring Brook, with their women and children. A part of their warriors went by the way of the Tri-States Rock, then up the Neversink, as they supposed, in the rear of the Delawares.
When Cahoonshee left Hawk Eye, he went immediately to the white rock, at Mount William. There he found Drake, the two Quick and Rolla. They had prepared a large quantity of pine knots, and the preparation for the ball of fire was commenced. The white rock lay on a flat stone, requiring but little effort to move it. Around this stone, pine knots were securely bound, with strings cut from deer and bear skins.
Such was the preparation and situation of the contending parties on the morning of the memorable Battle of the Neversink. The sun rose over the eastern hills in all its glory. The wind blew from the north-west, as if to aid the Salamanques in the work of death. The torch is applied to the thick underbrush at the brook. The smoke rises above the tree tops. The war-whoop is sounded on the Neversink, and the Indian braves rush forward in their anticipated work of slaughter.
I have my revenge! exclaimed Cahoonshee, jumping on the lever that started the rock.
From rock to rock—from cliff to cliff, the fiery mass descended, tearing its way through the wood, brush and trees, throwing off its death dealing fire, and landed in the cool waters of the Delaware. In its trail, flames burst forth that ascended to the tree tops.
The Salamanques were enclosed on two sides by fire, and cut off from retreat by the Neversink and Delaware rivers on the other side. Then a rush is made for the river, but the Delawares have their ambush on the Pennsylvania side, and by a deadly fire, drive them back. Then a rush is made for the Pine Grove, thinking there was safety in climbing to the uppermost boughs. Men, women and children uttering oaths and imprecations, dash forward. Deep into the lurid waves of fire made by the whirl of glowing smoke, they rushed madly on—tearing at each other like wild beasts, and smothering their yells beneath the luminous element.
The poor wretches who were to die sought the darkest spots; and hid behind clumps of stone, stumps and bushes, or crept under torn masses of wild vines, panting with terror and dread, and trying to hold the very breath that threatened to destroy them. The Pine Grove is reached. Madly they climb to the highest bough. The aged warrior ascends with the agility of youth. The mother with her babe lashed to her back, and the youth springing from bough to bough, like squirrels. Thus, they spring from bough to bough, until the trees are loaded down with human freight.
But the fire rolls on. The cracking of brush—the yells of the victims, and the fall of the timber, creates a smothering, rolling, thundering sound. The fire leaps from bush to bush—from tree to tree, until the Pine Grove is reached. Rosin on the trees take fire, and a sheet of flame reaches the upmost bough. The very elements are on fire. One by one they drop into the surging flames below—roasted, blackened, withered corpses.
Their friends on the Neversink fare no better. When the smoke was seen above the tree tops, they advanced, thinking to drive the Delawares back into the fire, or mercilessly dispatch them with the tomahawk. But they found no enemy. And while they were wondering what had become of them, they saw a ball of fire pass like a dart of lightning from heaven to earth, and heard the shrieks of their friends in the midst of it. Then confusion and disorder ensued, and they retreated back to the Neversink.
As they reached the river, they were met by the Delawares, who received them with a deadly fire, which caused many of them to bite the earth.
But the fire was upon them. It was either drown or burn. They choose the former, and rushed for the river. This became their burial place, and their bodies became food for the fishes.
As they poured over the bank, the cool and collected Delawares dispatched them with the tomahawk and scalping knife, and the crystal waters of the Neversink were colored with blood.
The victory was complete. Nearly all that had so silently floated down the river the night before, were now locked in the cold embrace of death, and as the sun set in the western horizon, and the earth became enshrouded in the mantle of night, death reigned in silence.
While the conflagration was going on, and while the flames, like forked arrows were hissing through the branches of the trees, and amid the groans of the wounded, burning and dying, which could be heard above the crackling of the falling wood, the tall, erect form of Cahoonshee appeared in the front ground, on the highest pinnacle of Point Peter, with Rolla standing by his side. Feelings of satisfaction and regret occupied his mind. Satisfaction that the murderers of his fathers were punished. Regret that the white man would seize upon this opportunity to appropriate the land to themselves.
The smoke lifted for a moment, and looking toward Mount William, he saw the forms of five dusky Salamanques crouching in the brush.
It is finished, he said. My time has come. But I will not die by the hands of the Salamanques. I will throw myself from these rocks, and be buried by my friends, the Delawares.
You die by the fagot—not by the fall! exclaimed a voice behind him.
Turning, he saw three tomahawks raised. To advance or retreat was impossible.
I am yours, exclaimed Cahoonshee. Do your pleasure.
It is no pleasure to kill a dog—a coward!
Coward! ejaculated Cahoonshee.
Yes—a faint hearted woman, afraid to meet death like your fathers. You were about to meet death by throwing yourself from the rocks to save being tortured by fire.
Cahoonshee keenly felt the reproach.
I rely on the Great Spirit, he said. If it is His will the fire will not burn.
Did the Great Spirit kindle the fire that roasted my people?
Yes, through my agency he sent fire from the skies and consumed the Salamanques. Do your worst. I have had my revenge. Years ago you destroyed my tribe. Their bodies lay mouldering in yonder hill, and their scalps hang in your lodges. I alone am left. Many suns have I seen rise.
You will see it rise but once more. At sun rise to-morrow, the Skull Rock will be lit up, and Cahoonshee will die a coward at the stake.
Cahoonshee remained silent.
Is the great warrior dumb? asked the Chief.
Yes, when he talks to the Great Spirit. And stooping down, he picked up a piece of slate stone and wrote upon it:
“Prisoner. To be burned at the stake at sun-rise to-morrow at Skull Rock.”
Take this (addressing the dog) to your Master.
The dog seized it and bounded down the rocks.
See, said the Chief, the dog is ashamed of the cowardly spirit of his Master.
Cahoonshee’s hands were then tied behind him, and the march to Skull Rock commenced. Their course was north-west until they reached Mongaup. Then over the ridge to Fish Cabin Brook. Then up the cliff to Skull Rock.
This was the place where for years the Indians had tortured their prisoners by burning them at the stake, and skulls were frequently found on the ground. It was a high pinnacle rising several hundred feet above the water of the Delaware, and the rocks hanging over the river. ([See Appendix.])
The Quicks and Drake, as soon as the fire ball started, returned to their cabin on the Shinglekill, and viewed from the distance the fire and smoke that ascended above the battle-field on the Neversink.
The sun had just set when Rolla came bounding in and dropped a stone at Drake’s feet, and then whined as if in distress.
The dog means something, said the elder Quick.
In the meantime Drake had picked up the slate and was trying to decipher the marks on it.
Here is something about the Skull Rock, but that is all I can make out.
That means that Cahoonshee is in trouble—perhaps a prisoner. Dry the stone and you can read it better.
Drake held the stone to the fire, and then read: “Prisoner. To be burned at the stake at sunrise, to-morrow at Skull Rock.”
Our friend is doomed, exclaimed Drake, can we do anything to free him?
That depends on how many Indians there are with him. We saw several hundred go down the river but none have returned. If they go to the rock in force we cannot help him. But they usually take but six or eight on such occasions, and with my knowledge of the ground and the under ground approach, I think we could rescue him.
Let us try, said Tom. I will take my chances. There is an under ground approach to that place, known only to Cahoonshee and myself, said the elder Quick. It will be several hours before sunrise and we have time to get there and make our arrangements. Put new flints in your guns and fill the knapsacks with provisions and ammunition.
It was now late in the evening. The night was clear, with full moon as the parties started on their errand of mercy. They had about six miles to travel to reach their destination. Their course lay along the north bank of the river until they reached the foot of the cliff. Reaching that point, Quick admonished the boys to be careful, as the least misstep would throw them down the rocks. The ascent was almost perpendicular. They climbed up rock after rock by clinging to the roots until they had ascended two thirds of the mountain. Here was a projecting table rock on which had grown a massive birch tree. And, under this was a fissure in the rock that led to the top. The entrance to this fissure was directly behind the birch tree, and was so small that it was difficult for a man to creep through. From this point to the top there was a sudden rise of five or six feet, which was about one hundred feet from the tree where the victim was to be bound. Up through this narrow gulch the party proceeded until the top is reached, the elder Quick taking the lead and Rolla bringing up the rear. Daylight was just appearing, but it would be an hour more before sunrise, and this left them time to perfect their arrangements. This was, that each man should pick out his man and fire at the same time. Then the two Quicks should rush out with their knives and release Cahoonshee, leaving Drake and Rolla free to rush on the enemy. A sharp lookout is kept in the direction that the enemy is expected. At last their gaze was rewarded, nearly a half a mile off five Indians were seen approaching with Cahoonshee in their midst. When within five hundred feet, one of the Indians advanced and minutely examined the ground. Not seeing anything to excite his suspicion, he signaled the rest of the party and they advanced.
Cahoonshee was tied to a tree and wood piled around him, when the chief addressed him:—Thus dies the white man’s friend, once the great Cahoonshee, now a lying dog, a craven coward. Now call on the white man’s God. Now see if he will save you.
Coward I may be, but liar I am not; I told the Delawares the truth and they believed me.
What did you tell Delaware dogs?
I told them of your plan to destroy them. With all your cunning I heard your plans at the climbing tree. You destroyed my Fathers, I helped destroy your Nation. Do your worst, Salamanque; do your worst, you may have my scalp to take to your village in the place of a thousand warriors, now smoking in yonder fire. Cahoonshee has had his revenge. Kindle your fire. Roast me alive. Ha! Ha! Ha!
The exasperated chief ordered the fire kindled. At that instant, Drake gave the imitation of the tree toad, and three guns belched forth, and three dusky Indians bit the earth in death. At the same instant, the two Quicks sprang forward to release Cahoonshee. Rolla went for the fourth Indian and soon had him by the throat. Drake made for the remaining one with his knife. At the discharge of the guns the survivor seized his bow and arrows and drew it on Drake. But Drake was so close to him that the arrow flew over his head. But in so doing, he lost his knife. Then they grappled in deadly combat and struggled toward the precipice that yawned several hundred feet beneath them, each one exerting himself might and main to throw the other over and save himself. The brink is reached, and Drake hurled the Indian off, but his own momentum carried him off, and they both disappeared in the abyss below.
Saved, exclaimed Tom as he sundered the last thong that bound Cahoonshee.
Yes, but at a fearful cost. A young life has gone out to save an old wreck that nature will soon remove.
What mean you, Cahoonshee?
I mean that Drake has gone to the spirits-land. Did you not see him leap from the cliff and follow the Indian in his downward flight?
So sudden had been the charge, and exciting the contest that the Quicks had failed to see the fearful leap that Drake and the Indian had taken, and for the moment were speechless.
There, said Cahoonshee, pointing to the highest point of the cliff, there is where they went down and, now lays a mangled corpse at the bottom. But we must find the body.
Just then Rolla set up a howl that echoed up and down the valley.
That means something, exclaimed Cahoonshee, go and see what the dog is making such a noise about.
Tom crawled to the edge of the precipice and looked over. Some hundred feet down he saw a dark object in a large birch tree.
What do you see, asked the elder Quick.
A man, replied Tom, but whether it is Drake or the Indian I cannot tell.
It is Drake, exclaimed Cahoonshee. The dog would have remained silent if it had been the Indian. Speak, and see if he will answer you.
Just then Drake’s voice was heard deep down the mountain.
Hello, Drake, is that you?
Yes.
Are you hurt?
No, but I am wedged in the crotch of the tree and can’t get out.
Tom, tell him to remain quiet a few minutes and we will help him out, said Cahoonshee.
Quick and Cahoonshee trimmed up a grape vine and lowered it down to Drake. He tied it around his body and by the united strength of those on the cliff, Drake was hauled to the top.
RESCUE OF DRAKE AT SKULL ROCK.
Bravo boy! Bravo boy! exclaimed Cahoonshee, the great spirit is on your side.
That may be, replied Drake, but if it had not been for you and the grape-vine, I think I should have hung there until the crows had picked my bones.
Say not that, said Cahoonshee, it was God’s plan to save you. He gave instinct to the dog to smell you out. He gave growth and strength to the vine to pull you up. And to us the common instincts of humanity to save you.
But we must be going. We are not beyond danger yet. Let us return to the Shinglekill and make arrangements for the future.
And leave the Indians unburied? said Drake.
Yes, leave them as they would have left us—for the wild beasts to pick their bones. See, the vultures have already scented their carcases.
CAHOONSHEE AND HAWK EYE PLANNING THE DESTRUCTION OF THE SALAMANQUES.
The parties then wound their way down the rocks to the river, and from there down the north back to the cabin on the Shinglekill. Cahoonshee seemed to be down cast and despondent, sitting alone under the butternut trees, with his body bent forward and his head clasped in his hands. Drake watched him for some time, but was unable to discover his trouble, when the words he heard him speak at the Skull Rock came to his mind—
“We are not out of danger yet!”
What troubles Cahoonshee? Is it the danger you spoke of at the Skull Rock?
Yes, in part. There is still danger of the Salamanques. They will hunt me down. But there is another danger that threatens the lives of all the white people between the Hudson and Delaware Rivers. I cannot tell when the blow will be struck. It may be a month—it may be years. The Indians feel their wrongs deeply. They see the whites increase and the Indians diminish. They know that by falsehood and intrigue they have been deprived of their land. They see from the Hudson on the east, to the Delaware on west, and to Kingston on the north, the white man has taken possession of the land and the Indian is being driven west. Both banks of the Delaware from Milford to the Neversink are now dotted with the white man’s house, and the lodge of the Indian has passed away. The Neversink valley and the Peanpack flats are occupied by Hollanders and French, and their cry is “Indian, go West.” The spirit of the Indian is broken, but their religion remains the same. Revenge is a part of their religion. Revenge they have resolved on, and a terrible revenge it will be. Before many moons have passed a general uprising will take place from the Hudson to the Lakes. Men, women and children will be killed and scalped, their houses and barns burned, their property destroyed, their homes made desolate, and all will be desolation and death. The Indian will have his revenge and go west. The white man will follow. The Indian will turn again, and the ravages of Indian warfare will be repeated.
And thus, for generation after generation, the war of races will go on until the last red man is driven over the western slope and their bones are buried in the Pacific. It is nature’s decree. The Indian must go. The places that know them now, will soon know them no more forever.
To me and my people it will make no difference. They are gone and I must follow them soon. I have but one wish to gratify. Let that wish be gratified, and I can resign myself to the keeping of the great “I Am.”
Here Cahoonshee bowed his head again and remained silent.
What is it you wish to accomplish that seems to be as dear to you as life itself? asked Drake.
I wish to find your parents. That accomplished, I can die with pleasure. Drake, you have now arrived at the age of manhood, and unlike Tom, you have employed your time in improving your mind. There are but few in these colonies who are better qualified than you to enter upon active life. You have been a dutiful son to me, and I have tried to be to you a kind father. In the course of nature we must soon part, I to lay myself down, you to enter upon the active duties of life. I have therefore resolved to go in search of your parents and take you with me. We must prepare at once, and day after to-morrow we must bid good-bye to the Shinglekill and our friends. We will go first to Kingston, and then down the Hudson to Manhattan. At one of these places I think that we will get information that will lead us to find your father.
What reason have you for thinking that my father is to be found there? asked Drake.
The mark on your breast is my guide. Undoubtedly the letters “C. D.” represent your name. But whether it is Drake, Davis or Daniels, I don’t know. The letters “E. N.” I am satisfied stands for English Navy. Therefore, I expect to learn some thing about your father by inquiring on board of the English war-ships.
But you have never said anything about this before.
I had my reason for that, and in time you will appreciate them. To-morrow we must take up the bee tree, and the next day start on our journey.
Drake was at a loss to understand why Cahoonshee had come to such a sudden conclusion. He could readily see why he should fear the Salamanques, but he had not discovered anything to lead him to think that there would be trouble between the whites and the Indians. Yet he placed implicit confidence in what Cahoonshee said, and intended to follow his advice. Yet to leave the Delaware Valley, and above all, to leave Amy, cost him a pang.
That night it was arranged that the next day they would go and take up the bee tree, and then the Quicks and Amy should return to the Milford farm, and Cahoonshee and Drake should start for Kingston.
CHAPTER XIII.
The Dead Shot—The Bee Tree—Amy a Prisoner in the Hands of the Indians—Drake and Rolla in Pursuit—A View of the Hudson.
That night Drake and Amy had a long and confidential talk. The next morning, the party, accompanied by Rolla, started for the tree, which was standing at the junction of the Steneykill and Shinglekill.
As they approached the banks of the Steneykill, Rolla placed his nose to the ground, barked and ran in the woods. Cahoonshee cast his eyes to the ground.
What track is that? pointing to an indenture in the ground. My eyes begin to fail me.
That is the print of a moccasin, said Drake.
Is it a Salamanque? ejaculated Cahoonshee.
I think not, said Quick. It is a new track to me. It is neither Salamanque or Delaware. Here, Drake, look at it with your young eyes.
Drake got down on his knees and examined it for several minutes. Then rising, called Rolla.
Cahoonshee, said Drake, did you ever see the print of a moccasin worn by a Stockbridge? If my memory serves me right, the print was made by one of the tribe that stole me from my parents. For what purpose are they in these parts?
Cahoonshee then examined the tracks.
It is many years since I have seen a Stockbridge or their tracks, but I think Drake is right. You fell the tree, and Rolla and I will follow the trail and learn their number. You, Quick, go to the top of the bluff and keep a good lookout for the enemy, for such I take them to be. You boys plug the hole and chop the tree down.
Tom climbed the tree, carrying with him a quantity of moss dipped in tar, and plastered it over the hole, thus effectively preventing the bees from coming out. Then returning to the ground, he and Drake went vigorously to work to chop the tree down.
About this time Cahoonshee returned and reported that there were five Indians in the party, and were going towards the Mongaup.
The party now proceeded to smother the bees, by smoking them with brimstone. This was soon accomplished, and several pails were filled with honey, then the party started to return.
As they were crossing the Shinglekill about half a mile from the cabin, Rolla gave three loud barks and jumped towards Drake.
That is the bark the dog always gives when he sees or hears Amy, said Tom.
And here, said Drake, is the moccasin track again. I fear that this forbodes trouble for those we left in the cabin.
Look to the priming in your guns, and be quick. There is no time to lose, said Cahoonshee.
This was a dark and adventurous day for Amy. When the party left in the morning, she began to realize how lonesome she would be without Drake. Although she claimed that Walter Wallace owned her whole heart, and none but him should ever call her wife, yet to part from Drake, even for a short time, gave her pain. She began to doubt her constancy for Walter, and admitted to herself that Drake occupied a small corner of her heart. Yet she was determined to be cheerful, and that the parting between her and Drake should be of an affectionate character. To that end, she put on her blue flannel dress, decked herself with flowers, braided her long, flowing hair, over which she placed her gypsy hat, and took a chair beside Betsy to await their return. She had hardly seated herself, when she heard the squirrels chattering in the butternut trees in front of the cabin.
I am going to shoot one of those squirrels, she said to Betsy.
Oh no, child, don’t hurt them.
I won’t hurt them, aunty, I will kill them so quick that they won’t feel it; and taking her gun, stepped out of doors. There were several squirrels in the tree, but she chose the highest. At the report of the gun, the squirrel’s head dropped to the ground, but the body remained in the tree. She felt proud of the shot, and darted up the tree. When she had nearly reached the top, her attention was drawn to the woods on the north bank, and nearly in line with her mother’s grave. There lay, crouched in the bushes, five Indians in full war dress. She thought that this meant mischief, but how to avert it she did not know. She first determined to load her gun, and shoot the first one that approached her. Then she thought that this would enrage the Indians, and they would kill and scalp both her and Betsy. Then she thought that perhaps they meant no harm, and had come only to get something to eat.