ENKINDLED.
The raft of fire, which had been reported to the sachems as visible
upon the river, had indeed been ignited and started upon its course by
the hands of the Dutch, but without any idea of signalling to their
allies. The man who was chiefly instrumental in giving the signal,
which Van Vuren had arranged for in the time of his power, had never
heard of that secret conspiracy which the action of the English
venturers had brought to nought.
Because the captain shrank from introducing his party into a camp
friendly only in name, where friction between his men and those of
Roussilac might have occurred, the Dutchmen bivouacked upon the
outskirts of the forest, and while darkness surrounded them sat smoking
solemnly and chatting, altogether ignorant of the contemplated native
rising. These men were of all ages and drawn from almost every station
in life. The most prominent character was one Pieter von Donck, an
elderly sailor of immense bulk, attired in the shapeless sack-coat,
white tucker, and immense knee-breeches of the period. This man, so
report went, had touched at every known harbour in the world, had
explored many an unknown tract of country, and was as well acquainted
with the streets of New Amsterdam, its double-roofed church, its
battery upon the hill, its toylike windmills, and its gallows beside
the wharf, as with the old-world town of Holland on the arm of the
Zuyder Zee. He had been sent out with Dutoit to act as guide for the
expedition, and it was well for the lieutenant that old Pieter had been
with him, otherwise the entire party must have been lost. Von Donck
was very nearly as skilful as an Indian in picking up a trail, and to
his more unenlightened comrades his knowledge of locality savoured of
witchcraft. Van Vuren and his lieutenant were conversing at a little
distance from the big circle, the former frequently consulting a scrap
of vellum covered with names and lines, the first map of the great
eastern coast which had ever been designed.
"Yonder is a mighty precipice," observed presently one of the youngest
of the soldiers, nodding his head gravely in the direction of the
heights. "How the folk at home would marvel, could they but see what
we look upon daily in this land."
"What say you, boy? What say you?" cried Von Donck, aroused from his
musings by this criticism. "What! call you yonder hill a precipice?
How would you name the cliffs of Jersey, had you seen them as I, Pieter
von Donck, saw them from the ship _Goede Vrouw_? Should you but cross
the expanse of Tapaan Bay, as I have done, should you enter the defiles
of the Highlands and see the wigwams of the Iroquois perched among the
cliffs like nests of eagles, should you see the black thunder-clouds
chasing the hobgoblins among the Kaatskills, as I, Pieter von Donck,
have seen them, then methinks, boy, you might sit among old travellers
and talk to them the night."
The old sailor's voice was thick, and he snorted like an ox between his
words.
"'Tis given to few to venture as you have done," spoke a conciliatory
voice from the circle. "Tell us now somewhat of your journey up
Hudson's River, good Piet."
"A weird river, they tell me," said another voice.
"True! true!" snorted the voyageur. "A river of ghosts and devils. A
river which changes the flow of its tide 'gainst all nature. A river
which shoals or deepens in an hour, to hold the explorer back, or to
lure him into the heart of a storm. 'Tis a river which few dare to
tempt. But I, Pieter von Donck, went up it under a master who, despite
his English blood, was the bravest man upon this earth. Ay, but I saw
even his cheek whiten, when we reached the whirlpools at the end of the
known world, and yet saw no sea ahead."
"Who was that master?" asked the young man who had opened the
conversation.
A derisive laugh sounded, followed by Von Donck's booming reproach:
"Young man, have you no pride in the doings of the great? Hast never
heard the name of Hendrick Hudson?"
"I knew not that you had been with him," muttered the youth.
"Before Marie von Toit, your mother, was weaned I crossed the seas,"
snorted the old man, smiling into the fire. "What Dutchman has not
heard of the ship which brought me over, the _Goede Vrouw_, which lies
as I speak a-rotting within the wooden harbour of New Amsterdam? San
Nicolas was her figure-head, the good saint who guided us through all
perils, and to whom upon landing we erected a chapel within sight of
the sea. He is the patron of our first settlement in this new world,
and shall remain so for ever. Now they call him Santa Claus, and the
children of New Amsterdam hang up each one a stocking in the
chimney-side on San Nicolas' Eve, for the good saint is a lover of
children, and rides that night over the houses, his wide breeches
filled with gifts, which he lets fall down the chimneys and so into the
stockings hung to receive them. All the city is a-laughing with
children on the morn of San Nicholas' Day."
"Gives he then nothing to the elder folk?" asked one.
"'Twas once his custom to do so, when he could find an industrious body
who spoke no evil of his neighbour," said Von Donck. "But he has much
ado to find such now."
"Didst ever see the storm ship upon Hudson's River?" a listener
demanded.
The old sailor pulled himself round to face the speaker.
"What story is this?" he muttered.
"There is a ship which haunts that river and comes a-sailing by night
or day, running 'gainst both wind and tide, her deck crowded with
Dutchmen who neither move nor speak. She comes before a storm, and
goes while men gaze, like a flash of light."
Pieter von Donck grinned.
"Will call me a phantom, brave boys? Here you shall find enough sound
flesh to make two men as good as any," he said, slapping his mighty
thighs. "That ship is surely none other than the _Half Moon_ herself.
Know you not that Hudson and his crew haunt the Kaatskills? O' nights
the good ship, which lies sunken at the end of the world, rises, and
the ghosts of my master and my mates pass from the phantom deck to
their revels within the mountains, and back ere morning to their
graves. Peace be to them, brave fellows all!
"Twenty-nine years past," Von Donck went on, in his strident voice,
which brought Van Vuren near to listen, "we cast away from our new city
on the island, and sailed westward to discover the overland passage to
China. In a day we had left the land of the Manhattoes far astern, and
with a favouring breeze had run under the palisadoes, a wall of rock,
young friend, which makes yonder height seem to my eye no greater than
an ant-mound. The solitude unmanned all, save Hudson, who walked the
deck, swearing that he would reach the sea if he had to explore till
Judgment Day. Awful was that silence when our ship entered the shadow
of the Highlands, where the falling of a rope upon deck broke into
echoes among the hills, and over the river came a noise as of demons
laughing. The terror of the New World was upon us, and when we sang
our chanties, heaving the lead or drawing in sail, we would fain have
stopped our ears, so terrible were the voices which answered us from
the shore."
"Was there no talk of turning back?"
"There was no turning back with Hendrick Hudson. He strode the deck
day and night, and at his every order the black rocks pealed and the
precipices shrieked, though the weather would be calm and the wind not
more than a whisper. We held on our course until a storm seized and
flung us upon the shore; and there we made landing, in a place where
snakes darted their heads at us, and having built us a fire under the
basswoods, cooked food and dried our clothes.
"'This mountain country is the place for me,' cried Hudson. 'Here
might we spend a free life, my sailors, hunting by day, and at sport by
night. Bring out our pipes and liquor from the ship, and in this
hollow let us rest until the storm clouds pass.'
"So we remained there three days, chasing bears by light, spending the
dark hours around the fire, smoking our long pipes, and playing at
bowls, the favourite game of our master; and the mountains thundered,
and the goblin voices shrieked with every gust of wind. A fearsome
place, that dripping rock-forest at the end of the world. Upon the
third night came Indians to our camp, two sachems old and cunning, who
demanded by what right we had brought ourselves into their land. I can
see the face of Hudson now, with its straight black beard and hard
black eyes, and the angry twitch of his mouth, a trick of his when
crossed, as he answered them. 'We are Dutch,' quoth he. 'And if there
be any new passage across this world Dutchmen shall find it.' Then the
sachems came down from the rocks, and cursed him and his crew, swearing
to call up spirits of river and wind which should fight against our
ship. Hudson threatened them with the sword--there was methinks too
much hot English blood in our captain--and the next day we remanned the
_Half Moon_, and sailed away against the stream.
"A wind struck us, and the horse-shoe which had been nailed to the mast
before starting dropped with a fearful clanging upon deck. We sang the
hymn to San Nicolas, and fastened the horse-shoe anew, but again it
fell. The Indian spirits were making mischief in the wind. The day
became dark; the sun went out; but Hudson bade us cram on sail, because
every hour he looked to hear the roar of the sea. 'And then for China,
my men,' cried he.
"We ran into whirlpools and cross currents, and the _Half Moon_ struck
full upon a rock in the middle of the stream. The water roared around,
and I swam for my life through darkness, seeing no man, dreading every
instant lest a hand should seize my heel and drag me down. I reached
the shore, and there found a companion, who had saved himself as I had
done. Of our ship and mates we could find no trace, therefore we set
out together, and made a great journey overland, until by the grace of
God we saw the tower of the church of San Nicolas lit by the morning
sun, and the good folk of New Amsterdam coming out to greet us as men
brought back from the dead."
Von Donck drew a flaming stick from the fire and relighted his rolled
tobacco leaf. A circle of solemn faces was set towards him.
"The _Half Moon_ yet sails upon Hudson's River," remarked the sailor
who had questioned the voyageur concerning the storm ship. "She rides
out of a thunder-cloud, her sails flying against the wind, the men
staring over her side. One Sunday in the morn, when the folk were at
church and the dominie was preaching--such is the tale I have
heard--there sounded a mighty wind, and the building grew creeping
dark. Upon that a man ran in, crying, 'A ship! A Dutch ship sailing
by!' The dominie and all ran into the gloom of mid-day and saw a
vessel riding against the tide, full of men in wide breeches and
sugar-loaf hats, with faces as white as wool. Some of the bolder
youths manned a boat, and rowed out signalling, but the stranger gave
them no heed. Sometimes she would appear so nigh to them that they
could mark the flakes rotting from her beams and the weeds trailing
round her bows, and the same minute she would appear as though half a
mile away. And while they still rowed after her, they heard a noise as
of iron ringing upon her deck and straightway she rode into a cloud and
vanished. And afterwards came a great storm which wrecked close upon a
score of houses."
"The old ship," muttered Von Donck, his eyes astray, his cheeks less
ruddy than their wont. "'Twas the sound of the horse-shoe falling to
deck which the rowers heard. Hudson swore in the face of Heaven that
he would make that passage. Mayhap he still strives, the storm holding
him back from the unknown north-west for ever."
As the old sailor ceased to speak Van Vuren advanced, the strip of
vellum between his fingers, and stood a sharp figure in the firelight.
The men ceased their mutterings and leaned forward to hear what their
leader had to say.
"Our expedition upon this land has failed, my men," he cried. "Our
ship lies burnt, our comrades are lost, we are not strong enough to
withstand the French. Shall we now make a journey through the unknown
land, and so down to our own free colony, through which pours Hudson's
river, of which I have heard you speak? Let us strive together to gain
the island of the Manhattoes, where our city of New Amsterdam smiles
upon the sea."
The Dutchmen did not break into a shout as Englishmen might have done,
nor did they raise a noisy chatter after the manner of the French.
They looked on one another with grave faces, and each man puffed his
smoke more heavily. Finally old Pieter von Donck snorted and spoke:
"I have played the pioneer before to-day, captain. 'Twould gladden my
eyes to see again the tower of San Nicolas by the sea."
"Then let us away before morning," said Van Vuren.
Boats of the fishermen were drawn along the white road of shore, and
these the Dutchmen requisitioned for crossing. They worked warily,
fearful of seeing the flash of torches along the path beneath the
cliff. The river brimmed and the stream flung down with a ceaseless
undertone.
"What have we here?" snorted Von Donck, while he groped under the
gloomy wall.
A number of dry logs, crossed and pinned together by wooden wedges, lay
upon the gravel spit, piled with dry grass and resinous boughs
interlaced. Beside were lengths of pine to act as rollers for
launching. The mass of inflammable material rose high. Torches were
pressed between two stones beside the logs.
"'Tis but the raft made to give signal to the Iroquois tribes,"
explained the lieutenant.
"To the water with it," cried a voice.
"Peace, fool. The French have sentries posted."
"Fire it," snorted Von Donck. "Let not so much good work be spent in
vain. Will float it upon the French man-o'-war for a parting message."
Eager hands set in place the rollers, and soon the unwieldy mass
grumbled riverwards. It nosed into the water and settled with a
splash, riding deep because the logs had weight. Flint and steel
struck, a shower of sparks rained upon the catch-fire, the torches were
ignited. At a word the grass flared, and the raft, released, struck
upon a rock, turned slowly, and raced down stream, a red and yellow
sheet of fire under a whirling canopy of smoke, straight for the
lantern which marked the presence of the man-of-war.
"To the boats!" whispered Van Vuren.
A cry was raised above, and soon the answering voices resembled a
chorus of daws frightened round a dark steeple by the shadow of a bird
of prey. While the Dutch were floundering in mid-stream a brass gun
thundered. The column of fire swept on, illuminating the seamed wall,
and throwing into black contrast the trees on the opposite shore.
As the laughing Dutchmen reached land a terrific din from the hemlock
forest shocked the night, and this wild revelry became each moment more
terrible, until the wind seemed to cease to breathe.
The raft was opposite the landing-stage, burning rapidly down to the
water, casting out flakes of fire and wisps of blazing grass. Lights
flashed confusedly upon the heights, and the tramp of armed men carried
solemnly across the river.
"The Iroquois are coming out!" cried Van Vuren.
"Let us wait like vultures for the pickings," muttered the lieutenant
at his side.
"Vultures!" shrieked a malignant voice. "A good word, traitors."
The men swung round and stared into the gloom. Upon a point of rock
they saw Gaudriole, squatting like a toad, his features half lit by the
glow of his pipe.
"The plain of Tophet lies ahead," he snarled at them. "Others may play
at fire as well as ye."
He sprang up and danced furiously upon the rock.
"Slay me that hunchback," shouted Van Vuren in a rage.
His men ran at the rock. Gaudriole spat at them like a cat and
vanished among the scrub.
A wave of smoke fanned over the ridge. A deep glow, waving up and down
like a red rag, grew along the southern sky, advancing storm-like,
deepening in colour.
The bush had been fired.