It was on the morning of the day which we have just seen close. As will
be remembered the air was clear and the day one of the most beautiful
and pleasant of the year. The air was perfectly still, and had that
peculiar, bracing sharpness, which is only felt when it is in a perfect
state of rest. It was such a morning as would make every healthy person
feel that to merely _live_ was pleasure.
That part of the State of New York in which the first scenes of this
life drama are laid, was a country at this time cut up and diversified
by numerous streams--the greater number of comparatively small size,
but a few of considerable magnitude. Skirting and between these were
thousands of acres of thick luxuriant forest, while in some places were
plains of great extent entirely devoid of timber.
It was about the middle of the day referred to, that a single horseman
was slowly skirting one of these open patches of country, a few miles
distant from Haverland’s home. A mere glance would have shown that
he had come a great distance, and both he and the animal he bestrode
were jaded and well-nigh worn out. He was a young man, some twenty or
twenty-five years of age, attired in the costume of a hunter; and,
although fatigued with his long ride, the watchfulness of his motions
would have shown any one that he was no stranger to frontier life.
He was rather prepossessing in appearance--had fine dark eyes, curly
hair and whiskers, an expressive Roman nose, and small and finely
formed mouth. In front, a long polished rifle rested across the saddle
ready for use at a second’s warning. His horse’s sides were steaming
and foamy, and the animal made his way along with painfully evident
weariness.
As the day waned, the traveler looked about him with more interest
and eagerness. He carefully examined the streams he crossed, and the
pieces of woods, as though searching for some landmark or habitation.
At length he manifested a pleasure in what he saw, as though the signs
were as he wished, and hurried the lagging steps of his animal.
“Yes,” said he to himself, “the woodman’s house can not be far from
this. I remember this stream, and that wood yonder. I shall then be
able to reach it by night. Come, my good horse, go ahead with better
spirits, for you are near your journey’s end.”
A short time after, he crossed a small stream that dashed and foamed
over its rocky bed, and entered the broad tract which led to the
clearing in front of Haverland’s door. But although he had a tolerably
correct idea of his situation, he had sadly miscalculated the distance.
It was already dusk when he struck the stream several miles above where
we have seen the fugitives take it. This river, or creek, he knew led
directly by the cabin he was seeking, and he determined to keep it
until he had reached his destination. His progress was now quite tardy,
from being often obliged to pass around the thick undergrowth which
lined the river; and, when he reached a point that he knew was a mile
distant from Haverland’s cabin, it was far in the night.
“Come, my good horse, we have had a longer tramp than I expected, but
we are now very near the termination of our journey. Heigh! what does
that mean?”
The last exclamation, or question, was caused by seeing directly ahead
of him, a bright lurid glare shot high into the heavens.
“Can it be that the woodman’s house is fired? Impossible! and yet that
is the precise spot. Heavens! something is wrong!”
Agitated by strong and painful emotions, Everard Graham (such was
his name) now hurried his horse toward the spot from which the light
emanated. In a short time he had proceeded as far as he dared with
his horse, then dismounting, he tied him, and made his way cautiously
forward on foot. The light was so strong that he found it necessary to
pick his way with the greatest care.
A few moments sufficed to show him all.
He saw the house of Haverland, the one in which he expected to pass
the night, but one mass of flame. And around it were a score of dark
forms, leaping and dancing, and appearing in the ghastly light, like
fiends in a ghostly revel.
Graham stood a moment spell-bound with horror and amazement. He
expected to see the reeking bodies of Haverland and his family, or hear
their groans of agony; but, as he continued gazing, he became convinced
that they were either slain or had escaped, as there were no signs of
their presence. He could not think they had escaped, and was compelled
to believe they had been tomahawked, and perished in the flames.
It was a ghastly and almost unearthly sight--the small cabin, crackling
and roaring in one mass of living flame, throwing strange shadows
across the clearing, and lighting up the edges of the forest with
a brightness almost as great as the sun at noonday--the score of
dusky beings, leaping and shouting in wild exultation, and the vast
wilderness, shutting down like an ocean of darkness around.
Gradually the flames lessened, and the woods seemed to retreat into the
gloom; the shouts of the savages ceased, and they too, disappeared; and
the building, which hitherto was a mass of crackling fire, was now a
heap of slumbering coals and embers, which glowed with a hot redness in
the darkness.
* * * * *
An hour or two afterward, a shadowy form could have been seen gliding
stealthily and silently around the glowing ruins. He appeared like a
specter as seen by the reflected light of the slumbering coals, or
might have been taken for the shadow of some ruin of the building. At
intervals, he paused and listened, as though he half expected to hear
the footfall of some one, and then again continued his ghostly march
around the ruins. Several times he stopped and peered into the embers,
as though he supposed the whitened bones of some human being would
greet his vision, and then he recoiled and stood as if in deep and
painful thought. It was Everard Graham, searching for the remains of
Haverland and his family.
“I see nothing,” he said musingly, “and it may be that they have
escaped, or perhaps their bodies are now cooking in that heap of coals,
and yet something tells me that they are not. And if it is not thus,
what can have become of them? How could they have eluded the malignant
vengeance of their savage foes? Who could have warned them? Ah, me! in
spite of the unaccountable hope which I feel, my own sense tells me,
that there are no grounds for it. Sad is the fate of the unprotected at
this time.”
“Fact, by gracious!”
Graham started as though he had been shot, and gazed around. A few
yards off he could just discover the outlines of a man, standing as if
he were contemplating himself.
“And who are you?” he asked, “that appears upon this spot at such a
time?”
“I am Seth Jones, from New Hampshire. Who mought be you that happens
down in these parts at this pertickler time?”
“Who am I? I am Everard Graham, a friend of the man whose house is in
ruins, and who, I fear, has been slaughtered with his family.”
“Exactly so; but don’t speak so loud. There mought be others about, you
know. Jist let’s step back here where ’taint likely we’ll be obsarved.”
The speaker retreated into the darkness, while Graham followed him. At
first he had had some slight misgivings, but the tones and voice of
the stranger reassured him, and he followed him without distrust or
hesitation.
“You say you’re a friend of Haverland’s, eh?” asked Seth in a whisper.
“I am, sir; I was acquainted with him before he moved out in these
parts. He was an intimate friend of my father’s, and I promised to pay
him a visit as soon as I could possibly do so, and I am here for that
purpose.”
“Jest so, but you took a rayther ticklish time for it, I reckon.”
“So it seems; but, if I wished to wait till it would be perfectly safe,
I am afraid my visit would never be made.”
“Fact, by gracious!”
“But allow me to ask whether you know any thing of the family?”
“I reckon that, perhaps, it mought be possible I do, seeing as how I’ve
been around these times.”
“Are they slain, or captives?”
“Neyther.”
“Is it possible they have escaped?”
“Jest so, I helped ’em off myself.”
“Thank heaven! Where are they?”
“Down the river at one of the settlements.”
“How far distant is it?”
“A dozen miles, p’raps, though it mought be more, and then agin it
mightn’t.”
“Well, let us then hasten to them, or, let me at least, as I have
nothing to detain me here.”
“I’m willing,” said Seth, moving forward, “but I forgot to tell you the
darter’s ’mong the Indians, I didn’t think of that.”
Graham started, for, perhaps, the shrewd reader has already suspected
he had more than a passing interest in the fate of Ina. Visions of a
fair childish face _had_ haunted him, and his perilous journey was
owing much to their enchantment. He had played with her in childhood,
and while they were yet children, they had separated; but they had
pledged their hearts to each other, and looked hopefully forward to a
reunion in later years. Graham had dreamed of this meeting a long time;
and, now that it was so cruelly thwarted, he felt agonized indeed.
Years before, when still a boy, although quite a large one, he had
visited this section, and the memory of that visit had ever been a
bright dream in the past. He mastered his emotion in a moment, with a
strong effort, and asked his companion calmly--
“What tribe has captured Ina?”
“Them infarnal Mohawks, I believe.”
“How long ago did it occur?”
“Only a few hours, as you can see by them coals there.”
“Will you be kind enough to give me the particulars?”
“Sartinly.”
And thereupon, Seth proceeded to narrate the incidents given in the
preceding chapter, adding, however, that the parents and sister were
safe. He had accompanied them himself down to the settlement mentioned,
where, leaving them, he had made all haste back again, and had arrived
just in time to meet Graham. At first he said he mistook him for a
savage, and as he was alone, he came very near shooting him; but, as
he heard him communing with himself he discovered at once that he was a
white man.
“And what has brought you back here?” asked Graham, when he had
finished.
“That’s a pooty question to ax me, I swow! What has brought me back
here? Why, the same thing, I cac’late as has brought you--to find out
what is to be found out ’bout Ina, that purty darter.”
“Ah--pardon me, friend, I am glad to hear it, and I am free to confess
that that inducement has had more in bringing me here than any thing
else. From your starting alone to rescue her, I presume you entertained
hopes of recovering her, and, as you, alone, entertained such hopes, I
judge there is greater room for them, when another one joins you.”
“Did I say, stranger, I ’spected to git that gal again?” asked Seth in
a low tone.
“You did not say so in words, it is true; but from _what_ you said, I
judged such was your intention. Was I mistaken?”
“No, sir; that’s what I meant.”
“I see no reason why we should not be friends, as we are both actuated
by a desire to rescue an unfortunate one from the horrors of Indian
captivity, and I trust, without that fact, we would find nothing
distasteful in each other.”
“Them’s my sentiments, ’zactly. Give us your hand.”
The two closed hands with a true friendly grip, and could each have
seen the other’s face in the darkness, he would have beheld a radiant
expression of friendship. They then retired further into the wood and
continued the conversation.
We may remark in this place, that the Indians who had captured Ina,
were, as Seth had remarked, members of the Mohawk tribe. This tribe
itself, was a member of the “Five Nations,” including with them,
the Seneca, Cayuga, Onondaga, and Oneida tribes, which have become
quite famous in history. They are known among the French as the
_Iroquois_, and among the Dutch as _Maquas_, while at home they are
called the Mingoes, or _Agamuschim_, signifying the _United People_.
The Mohawks, or _Wabingi_, first existed separately and alone. The
Oneidas then joined them, and these in turn, were followed by the
Onondagas, Senecas, and Cayugas. In the beginning of the last century,
the Tuscaroras of the South, joined them, after which time they took
the name of the Six Nations, although to this day, they are also
known as the Five Nations. Of course, they were all united, and war
made upon one tribe, was made upon all. They were truly a formidable
confederation, and the Revolution testifies to what deeds they were
sufficient when instigated by the British. During the predatory warfare
which long existed upon the Old Frontier, the white settlers relied
mainly upon stratagem to outwit their foes, and it was by this means
alone that Seth Jones hoped to rescue Ina from their hands.