"Hah, from Master Juggins!" he exclaimed with heightened interest.
"You sailed on the New Venture?"
"Yes, your Excellency--with Master Murray."
"That is well. Be seated, sir; be seated," ordered the governor as
he slit the packet.
I found a chair by the fireplace, and watched in silence whilst he
read through the close-writ pages, with an occasional word or
interjection to the others, who had risen from their places and were
clustered about him. They were, as I afterward learned, the most
prominent men of the governor's faction in the province, who strove
to uphold his authority and aid him in his effort to clinch the
control of the fur-trade in English hands--Abraham van Horne, the
governor's father-in-law; James Alexander, Robert Walter, Rip van
Dam, a cousin to my friend, the proprietor of the George; John
Barberie, Francis Harrison and Cadwalader Colden, the
surveyor-general, he who later writ "The History of the Five Indian
Nations," and who made himself remarkably acquainted with the history
of provincial relations with the savages.
"So! Humph!"
The governor laid down the covering letter which accompanied the
detailed report of the operations of Murray in London.
"You are Master----"
He examined the letter again.
"Humph! Yes."
His keen eyes deliberately scanned my face.
"I see. Better----"
He turned from me to his councilors.
"It is apparent from what Master Juggins has writ that Murray has
triumphed, gentlemen, even if not so absolutely as he would have our
citizens believe. However, we know the worst, and we may prepare for
it. If I may have your indulgence, I would crave an adjournment of
our meeting to enable me to discuss some aspects of the situation
more intimately with Master Juggins' messenger."
There was a murmur of assent, followed by a scraping of chairs and
fluttering of papers as the meeting broke up.
"One moment, your Excellency," I interposed. "I have also a letter
from Master Juggins for the Honorable Cadwalader Colden of your
Council--if he is here."
"Indeed, he is," assented the governor. "A moment, if you please,
Colden."
A thin, bustling man, with very bright black eyes and a dark
complexion, who had been sitting at the governor's right hand,
detached himself from the exodus and resumed his chair. His nervous
fingers quickly tore loose the envelope of the letter I handed him,
and he began devouring its contents, regardless of the confusion
around him.
"Until tomorrow, gentlemen!"
The governor bowed the Council out, and shut the door upon the last
of them. He beckoned me forward.
"Sit here beside us, Master Ormerod--for so I see you are rightly
named, although you traveled under Master Juggins' name. Master
Juggins vouches for you. That is sufficient for me. What say you,
Colden?"
"Quite sufficient," agreed the surveyor-general. "Do you wish me to
remain, sir?"
"Certainly. Glad to have you. This is no matter to be manhandled by
the whole Council; but zooks, a man must have advice now and then,
whether he takes it or not! Now, Master Ormerod, do you tell us as
fully as you may what you know of Murray.
"Begin at the beginning. Spare nothing. Tell us how you yourself
came into this.
"Master Juggins hath slated you for a prominent part. I respect his
judgment, but more than our immediate fortune hinges upon the issue
of what we do, and I must know all."
The while he was talking he walked to the fireplace, selected a clay
pipe, walked back to his chair, crammed the pipe with tobacco and
cracked flint and steel to a slow-match of wadding, with which he
lighted it. Colden sat low down in his chair, finger-tips joined,
drinking in everything which was said. He was like a vigilant
terrier in his watchful eagerness.
I recounted the circumstances of my meeting with Juggins, the hearing
before the Lords of Trade and the incidents of the voyage, not
forgetting Tom's assault upon me and the strange bargain I had made
with Murray.
"Then are you safe from denunciation," broke in the governor. "We
think little of Hanoverian or Jacobite in New York. Here, Master
Ormerod, you will find only Englishmen laboring to wrest a living
from the wilderness and to extend their country's power and richness.
What you were matters little. 'Tis what you are we judge you by.
"The bargain was typical of Murray. He is no ordinary villain.
Already he hath persuaded the discontented elements in the province
that I would take the bread from their mouths by stopping his trade.
But he knows well that I would leap upon the excuse to lay him by the
heels, and he will see to it that no suspicion of your past escapes."
"He threatened me with the Red Death this morning," I said. "Can you
tell me what he meant by it?"
The governor and Colden exchanged significant glances.
"Bolling hath been in the town this week past," remarked the latter.
"I saw him on my way here," I said. "Ah, then, 'tis----"
"'Tis a saying of the frontier," explained the governor. "They call
this red-headed Bolling and Murray's negro, Tom, the Red and the
Black Deaths, for Murray is charged with having used them to remove
from his path those persons he considers dangerous or whom he honors
with his dislike."
"In the crowd attending Murray I also heard talk of the Doom Trail,"
I continued.
Governor Burnet smiled grimly.
"That is the popular name for the route by which Murray smuggles his
trade-goods to Canada."
"But why the name, your Excellency?"
"Because 'tis said to be the sealing of a man's doom if he seeks the
trail or any information concerning it. Is not that the story,
Colden?"
"'Tis a story which hath more than legend to substantiate it," agreed
the surveyor-general.
"Has the traffic been suspended during Murray's absence?" I asked.
"No," replied the governor. "Bolling and Black Robe have kept it in
motion."
"And who is Black Robe?"
The governor laughed outright.
"You are red-hot for dangerous information, Master Ormerod. Black
Robe is the Indian's name for one Père Hyacinthe, a Jesuit
missionary, who, according to some of the tales our agents bring,
shares with Murray the credit for conception of the conspiracy we are
debating.
"But where Murray plots for the overthrow of English rule in America
in order to bring back the Jacobites and enrich himself, Black Robe's
ambition is to establish France as the supreme temporal power in the
world and to extend the influence of the Pope by making his religion
universal on this continent as it is in South America."
"Sometimes I almost doubted the plot could be so formidable as
Juggins claimed," I said; "but----"
"Master Ormerod," returned the governor earnestly, "it is the most
formidable blow which ever was aimed at us. It is formidable because
it is based on a clever idea, upon a sound conception of the economic
situation, and because it is prepared in secret and those who should
be alive to the alarms we have sounded not only refuse to heed us,
but would stop our mouths, so that we may not any more annoy them.
"Today, thanks to the law I had passed, which the Lords of Trade have
now suspended, trade-goods in Montreal cost twice what they do at
Albany. And this, mind you, despite the secret trade which Murray
plies. Without that aid the French would never be able to meet our
competition."
"Where do Black Robe and Murray make their headquarters?" I inquired.
"Murray spends part of his time here in New York or in Albany, but
most of the year he is absent. He says he is on
trading-expeditions--and we may not disprove it. But we think he
stays at a station which is said to form a depot for the stores
smuggled over the Doom Trail. Black Robe is reported to have a
chapel there."
"'Tis called La Vierge du Bois," added Colden.
"And where is it!"
"If I knew, I should order a levy of the militia and burn it down at
risk of my head," retorted the governor.
"But you must have some idea where it is?" I pressed incredulously.
Governor Burnet put down his pipe and unrolled a large scroll map
which lay amongst the papers on the table.
"You forget that you have left the Old World of limited spaces behind
you," he replied. "This province over which I rule is greater than
all Britain--how much greater not even our surveyor-general, who
knows more than any other man, can say."
He spread the map before me, and I gazed with fascination at the
courses of unknown rivers, chains of untraversed mountains, broad
savannas the foot of the white man had seldom trod, lakes like seas
and immense blank spaces without even a mark upon them to denote
their character.
"This is New York, Master Ormerod. Our settlements are confined to
the coast districts, the island of Nassau[3]--" he motioned toward
the window--"and the valley of Hudson's River. We have barely begun
the task of colonization. There is room here for every soul in
England--and to spare."
[3] Long Island.
With his pipe-stem he pointed to the upper left corner.
"All this country is virgin forest. On the north and northwest 'tis
bounded by the inland sea which we call Lake Cadaraqui;[4] to the
southeast stretch the Adirondack Mountains. Somewhere between those
boundaries runs the Doom Trail. There are thousands of square miles
of wilderness to search for it."
[4] Lake Ontario.
"And the Keepers of the Trail to guard its mystery," put in Colden.
"Who are they?" I questioned, as anxious as a small boy for further
details.
"The _Ho-nun-ne-gwen-ne-yuh_," he repeated. "So far as we know,
Master Ormerod--and we know only what our agents have been able to
learn at second and third hand--they are bands of mercenaries,
Cahnuagas, Adirondacks and Shawendadies, all renegades of the
Iroquois, who are retained by Murray to protect the Trail.
"They roam that belt of forest you saw depicted on the map, and 'tis
death for them to find any man, white or red, within it, save he
bears Murray's sign manual. The Indians are a superstitious people,
and they have come to believe that there is some supernatural agency
behind the Keepers of the Trail. In plain English, they fear the
Trail is haunted."
"By what?"
He shrugged his shoulders.
"You would have to make a more profound study of their folk-lore than
I have been able to in order to comprehend the precise gist of their
belief. But they tell us that the False Faces, a race of demons from
the underworld, to whom Murray has sold his soul, have rallied to his
aid."
"Ridiculous!" I exclaimed.
"No doubt," assented the surveyor-general; "but the superstition is a
factor in the problem."
"At every turn we run against the shrewdness and wit of this fellow
Murray," exploded the governor. "'Tis at once a tribute to his
ability, and perhaps an index to our inferiority, that we have never
been able to secure certain information of his operations."
"'Tis evident, your Excellency," I ventured, "that the Lords of Trade
will accept only positive evidence that he hath evaded the law."
"That means legal proof of smuggling," reflected the governor.
"And now that the Lords of Trade have suspended our law, his
operations are no longer illegal, strictly speaking," said Colden.
"But I make no doubt he will continue to handle the bulk of his goods
over the Doom Trail, for he will not care to have his dupes in the
province realize the enormous tribute they pay to France through him."
"The suspension of the law may well be permanent," I suggested.
"'Twas Master Juggins' conviction that Murray would scatter bribes
right and left, at home and in London, to win his point. And he hath
the French Treasury to draw upon."
Governor Burnet brought his fist down upon the table with a thud.
"Gadslife!" he swore. "There is naught for it but war! We must be
after the dog! We must run him down! He hath Government at his
orders. If he continues much longer as he doth today he may secure a
petition to his majesty for my recall."
He sank back in his chair and stared reflectively at the map which
was still spread out between us.
"It shall be done, gentlemen," he said more quietly after an interval
of several minutes. "But we must move unofficially. What say you,
Colden!"
"We can do nothing with official support," rejoined the
surveyor-general, "and 'tis probable we shall receive the
instructions of the Lords of Trade to suspend the law by the next
Bristol packet."
"There can be no question of that," agreed the governor. "Well, the
law shall be suspended. I will have the suspension publicly
proclaimed. We will affect to mourn deeply over it. Aye, that is
the course to pursue. Murray will grow bolder with his success, and
we must put him off his guard."
He turned the pages of Juggins' letter.
"Then under cover we must concert the measures to be taken. That
will be for Master Ormerod. Do you still crave the opportunity,
knowing now the full measure of its perils, sir!"
"I am more anxious, if possible, sir," I answered. "Master Juggins
was good enough to think I had the qualities for the venture. As you
will have read, I have spent some years at Versailles and St.
Germain. I speak French sufficiently well to pass on the frontier
for a Frenchman. As for danger--why, your Excellency, the man who
has ruined his life can have no fear for it. He has all to gain and
nothing to lose."
"True," assented the governor. "But you know nothing of woodcraft or
the life amongst the savages."
"Master Juggins gave me a letter to one Peter Corlaer, a----"
Colden sat suddenly erect.
"Corlaer is now in the kitchen!" he exclaimed.
He turned to the governor.
"Peter came this morning with the Seneca chief, if your Excellency
will remember."
"So he did. We will have him in."
Colden went out, and returned at once with two companions. One I
recognized, to my amazement, as the Indian I had befriended an hour
or two earlier. He greeted me with a faint smile. To the governor
he rendered the splendid arm-high salute, and his deep voice boomed
out--
"_Qua, Ga-en-gwa-ra-go!_"[5]
[5] "Hail, Great Swift Arrow"--the Indians' name for the Governor of
New York, whoever he might be.
The other man was more like a tavern-keeper than a woodsman. Of a
naturally large stature, he looked even larger than he was by reason
of the fleshiness of his hogshead of a body.
At first glance he seemed all paunch, but when you studied him
closely you saw that his fat was firm and hard and formed a sheathing
for the most powerful set of muscles any man ever had. His face was
tremendous, with little, insignificant features; but his eyes, behind
the rolls of fat which almost masked them, twinkled with constant
interest and animation, belying the air of stolid stupidity he
affected.
"This is Corlaer, Master Ormerod," said the governor. "And with him
is come a friend of ours, one of the two war-chiefs of the Six
Nations. Peter, Master Ormerod hath a letter for you from Master
Juggins in London."
"_Ja_," he said vacantly.
I handed him the letter. He turned it over and over in his hand and
picked at the seal. Then he handed it to the Indian.
"You read idt," he said.
X