When Morton opened his eyes he found the dell, or rather gorge, for
the sides were almost precipitous though clad with vegetation, was
lit up by the moon, and Hemlock by his side, sitting Indian fashion,
clasping his knees. Without uttering a word, he rose on perceiving the
young officer was awake and lifted his gun to move on. Morton obeyed
the mute sign and they began to descend the bed of the stream. It was
a task of some difficulty, for it abounded in rocks and often there
was no foothold at the sides, the water laving the cliffs that formed
the banks. Had it not been that the season was an unusually dry one,
leaving the river bed largely bare, Morton could not have kept up with
his companion. Chilled by his wet garments, the exercise was rather
grateful to him and he exerted himself to overcome the obstacles in his
path. As they went on, the banks grew higher and the gorge more narrow,
until, turning a bend, Morton perceived the river dashed down a channel
cleft out of a rock, which rose a pillared wall on one side and on
the other had been rendered concave by the washing down of the debris
of ages. High above, shafts of moonlight struggled thru’ the foliage
and, falling irregularly on the sides, brought into ghastly relief the
nakedness of the walls of the rocky prison. Deeply impressed Morton
followed his guide down the gloomy chasm, whence the sound of falling
water came, and they passed two small falls. Below the lower one,
where the walls drew nearer, as if they grudged the scanty space they
had been affording the tumultuous stream for its passage, the cliffs
grew loftier. Hemlock halted, and pointing to a water-worn recess in
the rocks, that afforded some covering, said, “Sleep there.” Morton
lay down, but he was in no humor to sleep again. The magnificence of
the rock-hewn chamber in which he lay, with a giant cliff bending
over him, had excited his imagination, and his eyes wandered from the
foaming falls in front of him to the solemn heights, whose walls were
flecked with shrubs and topped by spruce trees. The contrast of the
unceasing noise and motion of the river with the eternal silence and
imperturbability of the rocks, deeply impressed him. Thus time passed
and when he had scanned the scene to his satisfaction, his interest
turned to his companion, who had left him and stood beneath a pillar
of rock higher than its fellows, where the chasm narrowed into a mere
tunnel. Evidently supposing that Morton was sound asleep, he was going
through those motions of incantation by which Indian medicine-men
profess to evoke the spirits. He writhed until his contortions were
horrible, while the working of his features showed he was inwardly
striving to induce an exalted and morbid condition of feeling. He smote
his breast resounding blows, he flung himself downwards on the rock
and shook himself until his body jerked with involuntary twitchings,
he shrieked in hollow tones and plucked at his hair, until the sweat
rolled down his cheeks. After a fit of hysterical laughter he sank in a
swoon, which lasted so long that Morton was debating whether he should
not go over to him. All this time the moon had been sailing upward and
now stood directly over the chasm, its beams transforming the foaming
river into a channel of milky whiteness and, where it broke into curls
at the falls, into streams of pearls, while the foliage that tempered
the stern outline of the rocks, bedewed by the spray that kept them
constantly moist, glistened as if sprinkled with diamond-dust. The
moonlight streamed on the prostrate body of the Indian, and as he awoke
from his trance and slowly raised himself, Morton read in his face a
wonderful change--a look of calmness and of supernatural ecstasy. With
great dignity he drew himself up and stepped forward a few paces until
he stood directly beneath the pillar of rock. Then he spoke: “Spirit
of the wood and stream, who loves this best of all thine abodes, come
to me. Hemlock seeks thee to help him. The wounded moose will never
breathe again the morning-air, the stricken pine-tree never put forth
fresh shoots, and Hemlock is wounded and stricken and growing old.
Shall the hand grow feeble before the blow is dealt, the eye grow
dim before mine enemy is slain, and my ear grow deaf before it hears
his death-groan? The leaves that fall rot and the water that passeth
returneth not; therefore, oh Spirit, grant to Hemlock his prayer, that
before night comes he may find whom he seeks. Again, this day, has he
escaped me, shielded by his medicine. Break the spell, O Spirit; take
away the charm that holds my arm when I aim the blow, and pluck away
the shield the evil ones hold over him! The eagle has his nest on the
hill and the fox his lair in the valley, but Hemlock has no home. The
doe fondles its fawn and the tired swallow is helped across the great
water on the wings of its sons, but Hemlock has no children. The light
of his eyes was taken from him, the joy of his heart was frozen. The
Yankee stole his land, slew his brothers, bewitched his only daughter,
and drove him away, and now he is a sick-struck man, whom none come
near. Spirit, grant the prayer of Hemlock; break the spell that binds
me, that I may taste the blood of mine enemy and I shall die happy.”
He paused and assumed a listening attitude as if awaiting an answer.
That in his morbid state of mind he fancied he heard the Spirit in
reply was evident, for he broke out again:
“I am desolate; my heart is very bitter. The smoke of the wigwams of my
clan rises no more; I alone am left. When the north wind tells where
are the leaves of last summer I will say where are the warriors of my
tribe. As the beaver the white man came among us, but he crushed us
like the bear; the serpent sings on the rock but he bites in the grass.
We were deceived and robbed of the lands of our fathers. Our destroyer
is near, he is on the war-path, his hatchet is raised against the Great
Father. Blind his eyes, trip his feet with magic, O Oki, and take the
spell from the arm of Hemlock. The eagle soars to the mountain when
the loon keeps to the valley; the snow-bird breasts the storm when the
moose seeks the cedar-brake: the wolf knows no master and the catamount
will not fly, so the Indian clings to his hunting-ground and will not
be the slave of the stranger. Spirit, help to destroy the destroyer and
to rob the robber. The hunted deer dies of his wounds in the strange
forest. The arrows of the Indian are nigh spent and he mourns alone.
The glory of our nation has faded as the fire of the forest in the
morning-sun, and few live to take revenge. Oki, speak, and strengthen
the heart of Hemlock for battle!”
The Indian fell prostrate before the gaunt pillar of stone to which he
spoke and lay there for some time. When he rose, there was a weary look
in his impassive features. “The Spirit has spoken: he tells Hemlock he
will answer him in a dream.” Advancing towards Morton he lay down and
fell asleep.
High above him shafts of sunlight were interwoven with the foliage
of the trees that overhung the crest of the chasm, forming a radiant
ceiling, when Morton awoke. The weirdly romantic gulf in which he lay,
coupled with the strange scenes of the night, caused him to think the
past was a dream, but going over the several details the sense of
reality was restored, and there, a few feet from him, was stretched the
sinewy form of the Indian. “Who could fancy that a being so stolid,
heavy, and matter-of-fact,” asked Morton of himself, “should show such
keenness of feeling and so active an imagination? And, yet, how little
we know of what sleeps in the bosoms of our fellows. Mark that sullen
pool above the cataract! How dead and commonplace its water appears.
It is swept over the brink and, breaking into a hundred new forms,
instantly reveals there dwelt dormant beneath its placid surface a life
and a beauty undreamt of. We are not all as we seem, and so with this
much-tried son of the forest.”
He rose to bathe his stiffened limbs in the river and the motion caused
Hemlock to spring to his feet. He glanced at the sky, and remarked that
he had slept too long. While Morton bathed, Hemlock busied himself
in contriving a scoop of withes and birch bark, with which, standing
beneath the fall, he quickly tossed out a number of trout. A flint
supplied fire and on the embers the fish as caught were laid to roast,
and whether it was so, or was due to his keen appetite, Morton thought
they tasted sweeter than when cleaned. With the biscuit in their
pouches, though wet, they made a fair breakfast. As they finished,
a faint echo of drums and fifes was wafted to them. “We will stay a
little while,” said Hemlock, “to let the scouts go back to camp, for
they would search the woods again this morning.”
“And what then?” asked Morton.
“We will go back to Perrigo, who is near-by.”
“Would they not fly to Canada after what they did?”
“Indians are like the snake. When it is hunted, it does not fly; it
hides. They are waiting for us.”
“Where were you taught to speak English so well, Hemlock?”
“I did not need to be taught; I learnt it with the Iroquois. I was born
near an English settlement and my choice companion was an English girl,
we played together, and were taught together by the missionary; long
after, she became my wife.”
“But you are not a Christian?”
“No; when I saw the white man’s ways I wanted not his religion.”
“And your wife, is she living?”
“Hemlock does not lay his heart open to the stranger; he is alone in
the world.”
Respecting his reserve, and tho’ curious to know if the guardian-spirit
of the chasm had spoken to him in his dreams, Morton changed the
subject, the more so as he did not wish his companion to know that
he had been the unwitting witness of his invocation ceremonial. He
asked about the chasm in whose solemn depths they found shelter, and
Hemlock told how it had been known to all the seven nations of the
Iroquois and regarded by them as a chosen abode of the spirits, the
more so as its origin was supernatural. There had been a very rainy
season and the beavers had their villages flooded and were in danger
of being destroyed. Two of them volunteered to visit the spirit-land
and beseech the help of their oki, which he promised. He came one dark
night and with a single flap of his tail smote the rock, splitting it
in two and allowing the waters to drain into the low country beneath.
Morton listened gravely, seeing his companion spoke in all seriousness,
and thought the tale might be an Indian version of the earthquake, or
other convulsion of nature, by which the bed of sandstone had been
rent asunder, and a channel thus afforded for the surplus waters of
the adjoining heights. The trees and bushes which had found an airy
foothold in crevices, and the weather-beaten and lichened faces of the
cliffs, told how remote that time must have been.
It was wearing on to noon before Hemlock considered it safe to move.
The delay they spent in cleaning their arms, and Morton, to his
regret, found that his powder was useless from being wet. The Indian,
more provident, had saved some in a water-proof pouch of otter skin,
but he had too little to do more than lend a single charge for his gun.
Morton took the opportunity to clean and arrange his uniform as he best
could and when ready to move felt he looked more as became an officer
of the King’s army than when he awoke. Hemlock led the way to where a
cleft in the wall of rocks afforded a possibility of ascent, and, with
the occasional aid of his outstretched arm, Morton managed to reach the
summit. When he had, he perceived he stood on a plain of table-rock,
the cleavage of which formed the chasm, of whose existence the explorer
could have no intimation until he reached its brink. They had not gone
far, until Hemlock halted and looked intently at the ground. “A party
of Yankees have passed here within an hour; a dozen or more of them.
See the trail of their muskets!”
“How do you know they have just passed?”
“The dew has not been dry here over an hour and they passed when it was
gone. They are searching for us, for one went to that bush there to see
no one was hiding.”
Morton looked perplexed, for nothing was more distasteful than to be
taken prisoner. “Had we not,” he suggested, “better return to the chasm
and wait for night?”
“It is too late,” replied Hemlock, “when they come back they would see
our trail and follow it. We will have to go on and if we get across
the road we are safe,” and without another word he went on until the
road was reached. On scanning it, before making a dash across, they
perceived, to their dismay, a mounted sentry so posted as to give a
clear view of the portion of the road they were standing by. Hemlock
gave a grunt of disappointment and returned into the bush and after
a few minutes’ rapid walking turned to Morton with the words, “You
stay here, until I go and see the road. Over there is the track of a
short-cut between Four Corners and the blockhouse, so if Yankees pass
they will keep to it and not see you. Do not leave until I come back.”
Morton threw himself on the grass to await his report, and the rest
was grateful, for the day was hot and their short tramp fast. The
minutes sped without sign of the Indian, who he conjectured was finding
it difficult to discover a clear passage. It was now plain that the
Americans had discovered their tracks of the preceding evening and
had established a cordon to ensure their capture. So absolute was
Morton’s faith in Hemlock’s skill that he felt little perturbed and
was confident they would be in Perrigo’s camp before long. Then his
thoughts wandered to a subject that had come of late to be pleasant to
him, to the household by the Chateaugay, and he saw in fancy Maggie
bustling about her daily tasks, and he smiled.
“In the name of the United States of America I command you to yield as
prisoner,” shouted a voice with a nasal twang.
Morton bounded to his feet. In front of him, within four yards, stood
the spy, holding a musket, with his finger on the trigger.
“I mout hev shot ye dead a-laying there,” he said, “but I mean to take
game like you alive. I can make more out o’ your skin when you can wag
yer tongue. Yield peaceable, young man, and giv up yer arms.”
“Yield! And to a spy! Never!” shouted Morton indignantly, and he sprang
like a panther at his foe. Quick as was his movement, the American
was not quite taken by surprise, for he fired, but the bullet missed.
The next moment Morton was on him and they grappled. Both were strong
men, but the American was older and had better staying power, and as
they wrestled Morton felt he would be thrown, when he bethought him of
a certain trip he had often used successfully in his school days. He
made the feint, put out his foot, and the American fell with a crash,
underneath him.
“Villain,” he whispered hoarsely, “you twice escaped me, but will not
again,” and he grasped his throat with one hand while he held his right
arm with the other.
“Quarter,” gasped the American, who was in danger of being choked, “I
yield.”
“Quarter to a spy!” exclaimed Morton.
“I ain’t no spy. I’m Major Slocum, brevet-rank, of Ginral Hampton’s
staff.”
“Not a spy! You were to have been shot for one.”
“I was on special service, when I was informed on by an ongrateful
cuss. I’m an honorable officer and appeal to yer honor as a Britisher.
Take my sword; I yield your prisoner.”
“If I let you go; will you lead me in safety across your lines, and
release my guide Hemlock, if he has been taken prisoner?”
“Sartainly I will; Slocum’s word is as good as his bond. Take your
hands off me and I will set you and your Injun to hum in an hour.”
Morton released his grasp, and stood up, drew his sword, and awaited
Slocum’s rising. With a deft movement the American thrust his hand
into his belt, drew a heavy, short-bladed knife, and shot it forward
from his palm with an ease and dexterity that indicated much practice.
Morton’s eye caught the gleam of the steel and he sprang back, and
in so doing saved his life, for the point of the blade, which would
have pierced his breast, stuck in his right thigh for an instant
and dropped out. In a towering passion of indignation, which made
him unconscious of the pain and flow of blood, he rushed upon the
American, who had sprung to his feet and lifted his sword in time to
foil Morton’s thrust. “Vile wretch, you shall die as traitors die!”
exclaimed Morton, and the clash of steel was incessant. He was much
the better swordsman, but his impetuosity and anger deprived him of the
advantage of his skill, and stepping backward, Slocum’s long sword,
wielded by his long arm, kept him at bay. Morton’s anger increased
with the difficulty in dealing a deadly thrust, until, in making a
lunge, he stumbled over a fallen log. Had he been unwounded he would
have instantly recovered himself. The wrench to his pierced leg shot
a thrill of agony to his heart, and the weakened knee refused its
office. In a moment Slocum had him on his back and planting his foot
on the bleeding wound, pressed it with all his might, while he placed
the point of his sword on his throat. A mocking leer lit up his yellow
face as he said composedly: “I don’t see how yer mother let you go out
alone; you’re green as garden-sass. Thought Major Slocum would be your
obedient servant and lead you and yer infernal Injun past the lines!
You poor trash of a Britisher! An you sucked in my talk about honor and
let go yer holt on my throat! You poor innocent, its like stabbing a
baby to put my sword through yer gizzard. Say, sonny, wouldn’t you like
to live?”
The pain of his wound was excruciating, yet Morton answered composedly,
“I’d die a thousand times before I would beg my life of you. I am
not the first of His Majesty’s service to have lost his life through
believing there was honor in an American officer.”
“I’m a citizen of the great Republic and will be doing a patriotic
dooty in killing you, and, like Washington, after hanging Andre, will
take a good square meal with the satisfactory feeling that there is a
red-coat less in the world. But there ain’t no comfort in killing a
chick like you. Say, what will ye give, if I let you go? I will take
an order on Montreal. Slocum ain’t the man to refuse to earn an honest
dollar and do a charitable action. Yer father maybe is a Lord or a
Dook, and he can come down handsum. Why don’t yer speak? I ain’t a mind
to do all the talking.”
“If I was fool enough to believe you and spare your life it is enough.
Torture me not with your dishonorable proposals. I can die as becomes a
British soldier.”
“Yer can, eh? Waal, what if I don’t mind to kill you? Perhaps Slocum
sees he can make more by toting you into camp. It ain’t every day a
British officer is caught and I mout get promotion. Kurnel Slocum would
sound well. Come now, hadn’t yer better sign a little order on your
father’s agents for a neat little sum, payable to Major Slocum for
vally received? Yer wound hurts, don’t it?” enquired Major Slocum with
a grin, as he thrust the toe of his boot into it. Involuntarily, Morton
gave a stifled shriek of pain and lay gasping, while his tormentor
looked down upon him with a smile, enjoying his sufferings. As Morton’s
eyes rolled in agony, the sight of Hemlock met their gaze. He was
stealing stealthily up behind Slocum, who stood all unconscious of his
danger, torturing his victim in the hope he would purchase his release.
Nearer the Indian came; his arms now opened out,--he stood behind
Slocum,--they closed,--he was in their grasp, and was thrown with a
heavy thud on the ground, when, Hemlock bound his arms and legs with
his sash. Then, with dreadful calmness, he drew his scalping-knife and
knelt, one knee on the breast of the prostrate man. “Many times you
have escaped me, Slocum, but you die now. The oki granted what I asked;
the spell is gone. I tracked you long, but now you are mine. I will not
kill you at once. You shall die by inches, and have a taste, before the
dark cloud swallows you, of the bitterness I have drank at your hands
for years.”
So saying, with infernal ingenuity, the heritage of his tribe in the
art of torture, he stripped Slocum of his clothing and proceeded to
draw cuts with his knife on different parts of the body, nowhere making
an incision any deeper than requisite to cause the quivering flesh to
feel the full pain. The wretched man plied the Indian with all manner
of promises to induce him to desist, and on seeing he was relentless
in his purpose, was about to shriek in the hope of attracting aid,
when Hemlock caught him by the throat, and snatching up handfuls of
forest-litter forced them into his mouth. Then he resumed his dreadful
task. Morton, who had alternated from a state of semi-stupor to that
of insensibility, looked on in his lucid intervals with sickened
horror, and begged Hemlock to desist. He paid not the slightest heed
but went on for hours, gloating over the agonies of his victim, and
adding a fresh wound as the others dulled. Alert even in his dreadful
employment, a rustle in the bush caught his ear, and he listened. “It
is the Yankee picket going to the blockhouse. If Hemlock could take you
with him he would, but you cannot travel. They will make you prisoner
and care for your wound. And now Hemlock must finish his revenge.” With
one swift sweep of the knife, he cut the throat of his now fainting
victim, with another he severed his scalp, and flourishing it above
his head, vanished in the woods. Immediately afterwards a body of blue
uniformed soldiers appeared, who shouted with surprise at seeing the
major, naked, stiff and scalped, and a wounded British officer lying
near him. Part hurried to each. As those who went to the side of Morton
stooped over him and moved him, he fainted.