"Bolling hath disappeared," said Governor Burnet. "You will not see
him again, save it be in the dining-room of Captain van Horne's house
where the governor worked pending the refurbishing of his official
residence within the walls of the Fort.
"I have given orders to all officers of troops and town officials
that he is to be detained if he ventures to appear," he continued;
"but the knave--or, I should say his master--is too wise. By the
way, an express arrived from Fort Orange[1] last night and reported
having spoken Murray's party in the Tappan Zee. He will be a good
three days ahead of you, 'twould seem."
[1] Albany.
"I am not sorry," I answered. "Have you any further instructions for
me, sir?"
"Aye. Are you ready to sail?"
"Corlaer just now told me all our gear was aboard the sloop.
Ta-wan-ne-ars is watching it."
The governor unfolded the map of the wilderness country which he had
exhibited to me during my first visit.
"Above everything else, I must know what is happening at Jagara," he
said. "The Doom Trail may wait. The news which Ta-wan-ne-ars
brought of the intent of the French to replace Joncaire's
trading-post with a stone fort is the most menacing tidings we have
had since the peace was signed. It makes manifest what I have always
contended: that there can be no real peace whilst we and the French
sit cheek by jowl, each striving for more power than the other.
"Peace on paper there may be; but the French will be breaking it, as
they have done in the case of Joncaire's post and as they now plan to
do by building a fort upon English territory. I must know what they
do there, Master Ormerod. I must know beyond a doubt. I can not
afford to accept merely the hearsay evidence of the Indians. I must
have a man I can trust who will see for himself on the spot."
"Surely, Corlaer----"
The governor brushed away my suggestion.
"Corlaer can not speak French. Moreover, if he could, his face is
known along the whole frontier. He and Joncaire are old opponents.
No; if he ventured to the post without safe-conduct he would
disappear. If he went with a safe-conduct he would see nothing.
'Tis you who must go.
"Masquerade as a Frenchman. There are plenty of lads who go out
every year to Canada to have a try at the fur-trade. You should be
able to pass for one of them. At any rate 'tis worth the attempt."
"'Tis well worth trying," I agreed. "Also, 'tis possible I may pick
up some news of the Trail from Joncaire."
"Possible," he assented; "but keep the Trail in the back of your
mind. 'Tis this fort which concerns me now. For look you, Master
Ormerod, if I secure proof the French meditate in earnest so grave a
breach of the treaty 'twill strengthen by so much my case against
Murray. Then might I dare indeed to stir the Iroquois to hostilities
against him, as Peter suggested."
"I will do what I may," I promised, rising.
"'Tis well. And be not reluctant to accept advice from Corlaer and
the Indians. They are schooled in the forest's craft. Here, too, is
a letter to Master Livingston, the Mayor of Fort Orange, and Peter
Schuyler, a gentleman of that place who acts upon occasion as my
deputy in frontier affairs. You may talk freely with them concerning
your mission. Good-by, sir, and be vigilant."
He gave me a hearty clasp of the hand and bowed me out.
In the street Corlaer awaited me.
"Der tide is flooding," he said, and without another word set off at
a good round pace.
We came presently to a wharf at the foot of Deye Street, where lay
the sloop _Betsy_, her sails unstopped, land-lines slack. She cast
off as we stepped aboard, and presently I was looking back over her
stern at the dwindling skyline of the quaint little city. As I
looked I recognized the masts of the _New Venture_ amongst the
shipping in the East River anchorage, and a pang smote me with the
realization that she was my last tie with the England which would
have none of me and for which I hungered with the perverse appetite
of one who is denied his greatest wish.
The masts and their tracery of rigging soon merged in the blue of the
afternoon sky; the woods closed down around the scattered buildings
of the Out Ward; and we sailed a broad channel which ran between
lofty heights of land, reaching hundreds of feet above us like the
walls of some gigantic city of the future, fairer and more stupendous
than the mind of man had ever dreamed on.
All that afternoon we sailed with a quartering wind, but in the night
it shifted and we were compelled to anchor. In the morning we
proceeded, but our progress was slow, and with darkness we must
anchor again. So likewise on the next day a storm beat down upon us
from the hulking mountains which rimmed the wide expanse of the river
called by the old Dutch settlers the Tappan Zee; and with only a rag
of sail we sped for shelter under the lee of an island.
On the fourth day the river bore us through a country of low, rolling
hills and plains that lifted to mountainous heights in the distance.
There were farms by the water's edge, and sometimes the imposing
mansion of a patroon with its attendant groups of buildings occupied
by servants, slaves and tenants. Several times we passed villages,
and occasionally a sloop similar to our own hailed us and exchanged
the latest news of the river.
On the fifth day toward sunset we sighted in the distance the
stockades of Fort Orange, which the English were beginning to call
Albany, nestling close to the river-bank under the shelter of a steep
hillock. We made the tottery pier after darkness had fallen, and
hastened up into the town, delegating to the master of the sloop and
his boy the task of conveying our baggage to the tavern kept by
Humphrey Taylor.
Corlaer and I left Ta-wan-ne-ars at the tavern to receive the
baggage, whilst we called upon Mayor Livingston. He was preparing
for his bed, but on my sending up word by the slave that I carried a
letter from the governor he tucked his shirt into his breeches and
came down to us. From him we learned that Murray had spent but
twenty-four hours in the town and was gone two days since.
"Did he say where?" I inquired curiously.
Master Livingston chuckled.
"He caused to be circulated that he was going upon a round of his
'trading-stations' to correct some slackness which had developed
during his absence. 'Tis his usual excuse when he disappears."
"He was not alone?"
"No. He was accompanied by a Frenchman and that scoundrel, Tom, as
well as by some misguided young female."
"She was his daughter," I said.
"So he said, I believe," agreed Master Livingston negligently.
"But I am sure she is," I insisted. "There can be no doubt----"
"Then I am vastly sorry for her lot," he replied good-humoredly.
"Which way didt he go?" asked Corlaer.
"The usual way. He followed the Iroquois Trail to the Mohawk, then
struck north. We have followed him so far many times; but always
when our scouts have pressed the pursuit they have encountered
strange bands of warriors who have killed or captured them or driven
them away."
"Did you see aught of the Frenchman?" I struck in.
"Yes; he did me the honor of calling upon me, and said he was on a
mission from his King to report upon the conduct of the Government of
Canada, especially with a view to the maintenance of good relations
with our colonists."
"The hypocrite!" I interjected.
"He was smooth of tongue, I grant you," admitted Master Livingston.
"He had the grace to acquaint me he was taking advantage of Master
Murray's company to secure protection through the frontier."
"Didt Murray hafe many men?" put in Corlaer.
"Half a dozen whites of Bolling's kind, and as many nondescript
Indians who were painted like Mohicans."
"They wouldt be Cahnuagas," amended Corlaer.
"Yes," assented the Mayor; "but if you are to go to Jagara, as the
governor's letter advises me, you need not concern yourself with
Murray at this time. What do you propose to do?"
"We have discussed the journey on the voyage up the river," I
replied; "and we are agreed 'tis best that we go first to the Seneca
country, where Ta-wan-ne-ars can pick up the latest news. There we
can concert our plan in detail and decide how best I am to be able to
gain Joncaire's confidence."
"You are wise to be cautious," said Livingston. "Joncaire is no easy
man to fool. Believe me, sir, he is the ablest officer the French
have, and a bitter thorn in our side."
"_Ja!_" exclaimed Corlaer with unaccustomed vigor.
"Peter knows," laughed the Mayor. "Eh, Peter?"
Corlaer's reply was indecently explicit in its description of
Joncaire.
"Peter once prepared a clever trap for Joncaire," continued Master
Livingston, seeing I did not understand my companion's rage. "He was
to be captured whilst he feasted with some friends amongst the
Senecas. But Joncaire got wind of it, and instead 'twas Peter who
escaped by a lucky slit in a bark-house wall."
Livingston would have persuaded us to stay the night at his house,
but we had told Ta-wan-ne-ars we would return to the tavern, so we
let him get to his bed and sought our own.
In the morning we visited Captain Schuyler, but he was absent, riding
some lands he held in the vicinity. We spent the forenoon in
purchasing for me the regular trappings of the
frontiersman--moccasins of ankle height and leather leggings and
shirt, all Indian in manufacture. The weapons Juggins had supplied
me were warmly praised by my comrades.
For the rest there were slim stores of salt, sugar, powder, flints
and ball to be packed upon our backs. My garments of civilization I
made into a package which I consigned to the innkeeper's care.
Personally I did not care in that moment whether I ever donned them
again. I liked my companions. I liked the loose, yielding clothing
I had acquired. I liked the feel of arms at my side and in my hands.
I liked the sun and wind in my hair, for I refused to wear the
fur-cap which the forest-runners affected and went like an Indian,
bare-headed. I liked the close grip on the earth which the moccasins
gave my feet.
At noon we mustered at the tavern door, ready for our plunge into the
wilderness. It meant little to Ta-wan-ne-ars and Corlaer. For them
'twas an old story. But to me it meant everything--how completely
everything I did not appreciate at that early day.
The Seneca inspected me with a grave smile as I appeared, fully
arrayed for the first time.
"My brother wears Mohawk moccasins," he said. "We will find Seneca
moccasins for him when we reach my country."
"Do I appear as a warrior should?" I inquired anxiously.
"Even to the scalp-lock," he assured me, in reference to my long hair.
"Can you walk t'irty miles a day?" demanded Corlaer seriously.
"I have done so."
"You will do idt efery day now," he remarked grimly.
We took the road to Schenectady. It was the last white man's road I
was to see, and I long remembered its broad surface and the sunlight
coming down between the trees on either hand and the farms with their
log houses and stockades.
But I knew I was on the frontier at last, for the stockades were
over-high for the mere herding of cattle and the house-walls were
loop-holed. In several of the villages there were square, log-built
forts, two stories tall, with the top story projecting out beyond the
lower, so that the garrison could fire down along the line of the
walls.
'Twas sixteen miles to Schenectady, and night had fallen when we
hailed the gate for admission. There was a parley between Corlaer
and the watch before we were admitted, but in the end the huge balks
of timber creaked open just wide enough for us to squeeze through.
"You are cautious, friend," I said to the gatekeeper as I set my
shoulder beside his and helped him shut the gate.
"And you are a stranger, my master," he retorted, "or you would never
think it strange for Schenectady folk to use caution."
"How is that?" I asked.
And he told me in few words and simply how Monsieur d'Erville had
surprized the town in his father's time and massacred the inhabitants.
"But now you have peace," I objected.
He looked at me suspiciously.
"Are you a friend of Andrew Murray?" he asked.
"Anything but that."
"Then talk not of peace, sir. Peace here will last until the French
and their savages are ready to strike. No longer. It may be
tonight. It may not be for twenty years--if we see to it that the
French do not thrive at our expense."
We were afoot again early the next morning. Beyond Schenectady a few
farms rimmed the road, but presently we came to a clearing, and on
the west side a green barrier stretched across our way. From end to
end of the clearing it reached, and as far on either hand as I could
see, a high, tangled, apparently impervious green wall of vegetation.
'Twas the outer rampart of the wilderness.
Some men were working in a field beside the road, and I saw that they
had their guns beside them.
"They are armed," I cried.
"So are you," replied Corlaer.
"But----"
"This is der frontier," he said. "Eferybody is armed. Eferybody is
on watch."
"Why?"
"Idt is der frontier."
I held my peace, until we reached the forest-wall. Then curiosity
mastered me again.
"The road stops here," I said to Ta-wan-ne-ars. "How shall we go on?"
He smiled.
"The road of the white man stops--yes," he answered. "But the road
of the Ho-de-no-sau-nee begins."
"What is that?"
He made no answer, but kept on his way until we were under the bole
of the first of the forest trees.
"Does my brother Ormerod see anything now?" he asked.