The next night after Henry Ware and his comrades lay in the brushwood
and saw Braxton Wyatt and his band pass, a number of men, famous or
infamous in their day, were gathered around a low camp fire on the crest
of a small hill. The most distinguished of them all in looks was a young
Indian chief of great height and magnificent build, with a noble and
impressive countenance. He wore nothing of civilized attire, the
nearest approach to it being the rich dark-blue blanket that was flung
gracefully over his right shoulder. It was none other than the great
Wyandot chief, Timmendiquas, saying little, and listening without
expression to the words of the others.
Near Timmendiquas sat Thayendanegea, dressed as usual in his mixture
of savage and civilized costume, and about him were other famous Indian
chiefs, The Corn Planter, Red jacket, Hiokatoo, Sangerachte, Little
Beard, a young Seneca renowned for ferocity, and others.
On the other side of the fire sat the white men: the young Sir John
Johnson, who, a prisoner to the Colonials, had broken his oath of
neutrality, the condition of his release, and then, fleeing to Canada,
had returned to wage bloody war on the settlements; his brother-in-law,
Colonel Guy Johnson; the swart and squat John Butler of Wyoming infamy;
his son, Walter Butler, of the pallid face, thin lips, and cruel heart;
the Canadian Captain MacDonald; Braxton Wyatt; his lieutenant, the dark
Tory, Coleman; and some others who had helped to ravage their former
land.
Sir John Johnson, a tall man with blue eyes set close together, wore the
handsome uniform of his Royal Greens; he had committed many dark deeds
or permitted them to be done by men under his command, and he had
secured the opportunity only through his broken oath, but he had lost
greatly. The vast estates of his father, Sir William Johnson, were being
torn from him, and perhaps he saw, even then, that in return for what he
had done he would lose all and become an exile from the country in which
he was born.
It was not a cheerful council. There was no exultation as after Wyoming
and Cherry Valley and the Minisink and other places. Sir John bit his
lip uneasily, and his brother-in-law, resting his hand on his knee,
stared gloomily at the fire. The two Butlers were silent, and the dark
face of Thayendanegea was overcast.
A little distance before these men was a breastwork about half a mile
long, connecting with a bend of the river in such a manner that an enemy
could attack only in front and on one flank, that flank itself being
approached only by the ascent of a steep ridge which ran parallel to the
river. The ground about the camp was covered with pine and scrub oaks.
Many others had been cut down and added to the breastwork. A deep brook
ran at the foot of the hill on which the leaders sat. About the slopes
of this hill and another, a little distance away, sat hundreds of Indian
warriors, all in their war paint, and other hundreds of their white
allies, conspicuous among them Johnson's Royal Greens and Butler's
Rangers. These men made but little noise now. They were resting and
waiting.
Thayendanegea was the first to break the silence in the group at the
fire. He turned his dark face to Sir John Johnson and said in his
excellent English: “The king promised us that if we would take up arms
for him against the Yankees, he would send a great army, many thousands,
to help us. We believed him, and we took up the hatchet for him. We
fought in the dark and the storm with Herkimer at the Oriskany, and many
of our warriors fell. But we did not sulk in our lodges. We have ravaged
and driven in the whole American border along a line of hundreds of
miles. Now the Congress sends an army to attack us, to avenge what we
have done, and the great forces of the king are not here. I have been
across the sea; I have seen the mighty city of London and its people as
numerous as the blades of grass. Why has not the king kept his promise
and sent men enough to save the Iroquois?”
Sir John Johnson and Thayendanegea were good friends, but the soul of
the great Mohawk chief was deeply stirred. His penetrating mind saw the
uplifted hand about to strike-and the target was his own people. His
tone became bitterly sarcastic as he spoke, and when he ceased he looked
directly at the baronet in a manner that showed a reply must be given.
Sir John moved uneasily, but he spoke at last.
“Much that you say is true, Thayendanegea,” he admitted, “but the king
has many things to do. The war is spread over a vast area, and he must
keep his largest armies in the East. But the Royal Greens, the Rangers,
and all others whom we can raise, even in Canada, are here to help you.
In the coming battle your fortunes are our fortunes.”
Thayendanegea nodded, but he was not yet appeased. His glance fell upon
the two Butlers, father and son, and he frowned.
“There are many in England itself,” he said, “who wish us harm, and who
perhaps have kept us from receiving some of the help that we ought to
have. They speak of Wyoming and Cherry Valley, of the torture and of
the slaughter of women and children, and they say that war must not
be carried on in such a way. But there are some among us who are more
savage than the savages themselves, as they call us. It was you, John
Butler, who led at Wyoming, and it was you, Walter Butler, who allowed
the women and children to be killed at Cherry Valley, and more would
have been slain there had I not, come up in time.”
The dark face of “Indian” Butler grew darker, and the pallid face of
his son grew more pallid. Both were angry, and at the same time a little
afraid.
“We won at Wyoming in fair battle,” said the elder Butler.
“But afterwards?” said Thayendanegea.
The man was silent.
“It is these two places that have so aroused the Bostonians against us,”
continued Thayendanegea. “It is because of them that the commander of
the Bostonians has sent a great army, and the Long House is threatened
with destruction.”
“My son and I have fought for our common cause,” said “Indian” Butler,
the blood flushing through his swarthy face.
Sir John Johnson interfered.
“We have admitted, Joseph, the danger to the Iroquois,” he said, calling
the chieftain familiarly by his first Christian name, “but I and my
brother-in-law and Colonel Butler and Captain Butler have already lost
though we may regain. And with this strong position and the aid of
ambush it is likely that we can defeat the rebels.”
The eyes of Thayendanegea brightened as he looked at the long
embankment, the trees, and the dark forms of the warriors scattered
numerously here and there.
“You may be right, Sir John,” he said; “yes, I think you are right,
and by all the gods, red and white, we shall see. I wish to fight here,
because this is the best place in which to meet the Bostonians. What say
you, Timmendiquas, sworn brother of mine, great warrior and great chief
of the Wyandots, the bravest of all the western nations?”
The eye of Timmendiquas expressed little, but his voice was sonorous,
and his words were such as Thayendanegea wished to hear.
“If we fight--and we must fight--this is the place in which to meet the
white army,” he said. “The Wyandots are here to help the Iroquois, as
the Iroquois would go to help them. The Manitou of the Wyandots, the
Aieroski of the Iroquois, alone knows the end.”
He spoke with the utmost gravity, and after his brief reply he said no
more. All regarded him with respect and admiration. Even Braxton Wyatt
felt that it was a noble deed to remain and face destruction for the
sake of tribes not his own.
Sir John Johnson turned to Braxton Wyatt, who had sat all the while in
silence.
“You have examined the evening's advance, Wyatt,” he said. “What further
information can you give us?”
“We shall certainly be attacked to-morrow,” replied Wyatt, “and the
American army is advancing cautiously. It has out strong flanking
parties, and it is preceded by the scouts, those Kentuckians whom I know
and have met often, Murphy, Elerson, Heemskerk, and the others.”
“If we could only lead them into an ambush,” said Sir John. “Any kind
of troops, even the best of regulars, will give way before an unseen foe
pouring a deadly fire upon them from the deep woods. Then they magnify
the enemy tenfold.”
“It is so,” said the fierce old Seneca chief, Hiokatoo. “When we killed
Braddock and all his men, they thought that ten warriors stood in the
moccasins of only one.”
Sir John frowned. He did not like this allusion to the time when the
Iroquois fought against the English, and inflicted on them a great
defeat. But he feared to rebuke the old chief. Hiokatoo and the Senecas
were too important.
“There ought to be a chance yet for an ambuscade,” he said. “The foliage
is still thick and heavy, and Sullivan, their general, is not used to
forest warfare. What say you to this, Wyatt?”
Wyatt shook his head. He knew the caliber of the five from Kentucky, and
he had little hope of such good fortune.
“They have learned from many lessons,” he replied, “and their scouts are
the best. Moreover, they will attempt anything.”
They relapsed into silence again, and the sharp eyes of the renegade
roved about the dark circle of trees and warriors that inclosed them.
Presently he saw something that caused him to rise and walk a little
distance from the fire. Although his eye suspected and his mind
confirmed, Braxton Wyatt could not believe that it was true. It was
incredible. No one, be he ever so daring, would dare such a thing. But
the figure down there among the trees, passing about among the warriors,
many of whom did not know one another, certainly looked familiar,
despite the Indian paint and garb. Only that of Timmendiquas could rival
it in height and nobility. These were facts that could not be hidden by
any disguise.
“What is it, Wyatt?” asked Sir John. “What do you see? Why do you look
so startled?”
Wyatt sought to reply calmly.
“There is a warrior among those trees over there whom I have not
seen here before,” he replied, “he is as tall and as powerful as
Timmendiquas, and there is only one such. There is a spy among us, and
it is Henry Ware.”
He snatched a pistol from his belt, ran forward, and fired at the
flitting figure, which was gone in an instant among the trees and the
warriors.
“What do you say?” exclaimed Thayendanegea, as he ran forward, “a spy,
and you know him to be such!”
“Yes, he is the worst of them all,” replied Wyatt. “I know him. I could
not mistake him. But he has dared too much. He cannot get away.”
The great camp was now in an uproar. The tall figure was seen here and
there, always to vanish quickly. Twenty shots were fired at it. None
hit. Many more would have been fired, but the camp was too much crowded
to take such a risk. Every moment the tumult and confusion increased,
but Thayendanegea quickly posted warriors on the embankment and
the flanks, to prevent the escape of the fugitive in any of those
directions.
But the tall figure did not appear at either embankment or flank. It was
next seen near the river, when a young warrior, striving to strike with
a tomahawk, was dashed to the earth with great force. The next instant
the figure leaped far out into the stream. The moonlight glimmered an
instant on the bare head, while bullets the next moment pattered on the
water where it had been. Then, with a few powerful strokes, the stranger
reclaimed the land, sprang upon the shore, and darted into the woods
with more vain bullets flying about him. But he sent back a shout of
irony and triumph that made the chiefs and Tories standing on the bank
bite their lips in anger.