THE OLD JOHNSON HOUSE
In the Mohawk Valley, about four miles north of Fonda, stands to this
day the first baronial mansion ever erected in the state of New York.
Its present proprietor, Mr. Eleazer Wells, has, with unusual good taste,
preserved the old mansion with all its historical associations
undisturbed, and even in this age of republican palaces, the old Johnson
House would be considered a noble mansion. Its broad front, flanked at
each end by massive block-houses of stone, perforated near the roof with
holes for musketry, has an imposing appearance. The broad entrance hall,
with heavy balustrades winding up the stairs, all hacked by savage
tomahawks; its high ceilings; its rooms wainscoted with panel work, and
ornamented with elaborate carving—all speak of former wealth and power.
In 1775–6 this mansion was occupied by Sir John Johnson, the heir of Sir
William, its first proprietor, whose loyalty to the crown, and cruelty
to the patriots of the Revolution, are on record forever in the history
of the great period of our national struggles. Then the hall was
surrounded with forests, deep, broad, and seemingly boundless as the
ocean. Sir William had hewed an estate out of this wilderness, which lay
upon a gentle slope, like a beautiful glimpse of Arcadia, surrounded and
framed in by the woods.
The season had deepened since the Indians were encamped in the Wyoming
Valley. The cultivated trees, then in blossom all over the country, had
set their fruit; Indian corn was half a foot high; and the wheat fields
looked like meadows ready for the scythe. The thickets around Johnson
Hall had cast off their flowers, and were now heavy with leaves and
swelling nuts. The whole region was beautiful, as if no war existed in
the world.
It was just after dusk on one of these late spring days, when a
horseman, with two or three Indians in his train, rode up to the front
of this mansion, inquired for Sir John Johnson, and dismounted, like a
person well acquainted with the premises, and certain of a cordial
reception. The Indians followed him to the front portico, and sat down
on the steps, waiting in solemn patience for his return.
Walter Butler entered the hall unannounced, and opening a side door,
stood some moments on the threshold before its inmates became aware of
his presence. It was after dusk; but Sir William Johnson had carried all
the aristocratic arrangements of his European life into the wilderness,
and those habits were strictly followed up by his son. Thus, late as the
hour was, Sir John remained at table with a guest who shared his
hospitality, and as the wine passed sluggishly between them, the two men
conversed together with more earnestness than is usual at the dinner
table.
Butler was well acquainted with Sir John—a handsome youngish-looking
man, who sat at the head of the table, a little flushed either with wine
or some excitement of suppressed temper, and apparently doing the honors
of his own house with unusual constraint. The other person, who sat
quietly picking over the nuts on his plate—for the meal was evidently at
its conclusion—was a tall man, a little past middle age, and of a calm,
lofty presence, difficult to describe, except by its contrast with the
restless and somewhat coarse manner of the frontier baronet. The repose
of his appearance was perfect; yet there was a faint red on his cheek,
and a scarcely perceptible curve of the lip, that betrayed deep though
well curbed emotions, which had received some shock.
Butler had never seen this man before, and his presence was by no means
agreeable; the interview which he desired with Sir John was of a kind
which rendered witnesses unpleasant, and for an instant he paused in the
door, hesitating to enter. Sir John supposed it was a servant, and went
on with his conversation.
“No,” he said, a little roughly, “you on the other side can hardly be
expected to understand the necessity of these measures. It is easy
enough making speeches in the House of Lords or Commons—humanity serves
well to round off an eloquent period with, I dare say—but we live in the
midst of dangers; the war is a real thing to us; we do not study it out
on a parchment map, while lolling in a cushioned easy-chair, but tramp
after the rebels through swamps and over mountains. If we burn their
cabins, they retaliate on our halls—nothing is safe from them. Why, the
very plate off which you are dining will be stowed away in the
block-house, under a guard of muskets, for safe keeping, the moment it
leaves the table.”
“The loss of your plate, Sir John, costly as it is, would be a trifle,
compared to one burning cabin, where the bones of women and children are
found in the ashes,” said the stranger, casting a careless glance at the
gold and silver plate glittering on every part of the board. “I would
consent to dine upon a wooden trencher, all the days of my life, if that
could save one of these innocent families from destruction. I repeat it,
Sir John, the savage warfare commenced in this neighborhood is shocking
to humanity. If the rights of our king can only be maintained by hordes
of savages, let them go; the loyalty of an enlightened people will never
be secured by barbarisms, at which even the better educated savage
revolts. This league with the Six Nations is inhuman, nay, a statesman
would say, worse—it is bad policy.”
“It holds the traitors in fear, at any rate. They dare not be insolent
when the war reddens their hearths.”
“As a Commissioner of the King, Sir John, I protest against the
introduction of savage tribes into His Majesty’s army. It may be carried
out in violence to this opinion, for in war men become ruthless; but so
far as I have influence with the Ministry this odious policy shall not
prevail.”
Butler, regardless of the low breeding exhibited by the act, stood in
the door, and listened to this conversation; but as the stranger ceased
speaking, Sir John looked up, and called out cheerfully, like one who
gets a much-needed ally:
“Ha, Butler, is it you? Come in—come in; we are just discussing a
subject with which you are more familiar than I am. Mr. Murray, this
gentleman belongs to the king’s army—Capt. Walter Butler, of the Tryon
Rangers. As half his father’s forces are Indians, he will be able to
speak advisedly on the question we were discussing, or, I am afraid,
almost disputing.”
The two gentlemen saluted each other rather distantly. Then Butler
turned to his host and said, with a dash of offhand impudence:
“No war or politics for me, Sir John. I came on a very different errand;
so cut the field and give me some dinner, unless your negroes in the
kitchen are hacking away at the venison and roast-beef as usual, before
the master is through with his dessert.”
Sir John laughed, knocked on the table with the handle of his knife, and
ordered the black slave, who obeyed the summons, to see that something
was sent up from the kitchen fit for a gentleman to eat.
The slave grinned till his white teeth glittered again, and went lazily
towards the kitchen. Meantime Butler went into the hall, threw his hat
and whip on a table, and strode back with his spurs ringing on the
sanded floor, and his fine hair half escaping from the crimson ribbon
that gathered it in a queue behind.
“I beg ten thousand pardons,” he said, throwing himself on a seat, and
leaning his elbow on the table, with his back half turned upon the
stately guest. “Pray, congratulate me, Sir John. I forgot to tell you
that it is a married man you have the honor of entertaining.”
“Hallo, Butler, what is this? Married—what—you? Nonsense!”
“True as the Gospel, upon my honor.”
“But the bride—where on earth did you find the bride?”
“Among the wigwams. Like your honored father, Sir John, I have a fancy
for picturesque women. My wife is a half-breed—no, I am too deep—she is
a white on her mother’s side, and half Indian in the paternal line, but
bright as a hawk, sharp as steel, and moves like a panther.”
“And you have married an Indian girl—absolutely and lawfully married
her?”
“Absolutely and lawfully married her,” answered Butler, taking a knife
from the table, tapping the cloth with its silver handle, and nodding
his head, as if he were beating time to music. “Handcuffed for life. No
jumping the broomstick in this affair; none of that Indian hospitality
which your father installed, but a downright, honest marriage, done to a
turn, by an ordained minister of the church, and served up with this
order, which you will please countersign or cash without delay.”
Sir John took the document extended to him, and read it with evident
surprise.
“Catharine Montour; it is her signature and secret mark. In Heaven’s
name, where did you get this document, Butler?”
“From the lady’s own fair hand. You recognize her writing, it seems, and
I hope hold possession of the needful mentioned. Rather a good
speculation for a clasp of the hands, locked by a dozen words of
nonsense, ha!”
“I do not comprehend.”
“You understand the draft, and that is the most important thing just
now, Sir John; as for the rest, it is a pill which I can swallow without
the help of friends.”
Sir John laid the draft down upon the table, and began to smooth the
paper with both his hands, regarding it with a puzzled, doubtful look,
like one who cannot make up his mind how to act.
“There is no doubt regarding the funds, I hope,” said Butler, growing
meanly anxious at this hesitation.
“No,” was the hesitating reply; “but have you any knowledge of the
position in which a marriage with Catharine Montour’s daughter places
you?”
Now, Butler had no information on this subject, nor had he ever heard it
mentioned; but he saw by Sir John’s manner that some mystery was kept
from him, and, with characteristic cunning, hinted at a knowledge which
he did not possess.
“Have I any knowledge of my position? Now, that is too good, Sir John;
can you possibly suppose me fool enough to marry the girl with anything
unexplained?”
“Then you know who Catharine Montour really was, and to what her
daughter is heiress?”
“Know? of course. Do I look like buying a pig in a poke?”
“Complimentary to your bride, at any rate; but I am glad Lady Granby has
been frank at last.”
Butler started, but his surprise was nothing to the effect the
announcement of that name made upon the king’s commissioner. He started
from his chair with the sharp spasmodic movement of a man shot through
the heart. His forehead contracted, his lips grew white as marble. Sir
John shrunk from the terrible expression of that face.
“Lady Granby—Lady Granby!”
The words dropped from his lips like hail-stones when a storm is spent.
He began to shake and quiver in all his limbs, then fell into his chair,
with one elbow on the table shrouding his face. Sir John and Butler
looked at each other in dumb astonishment; the sudden passion of that
man was like the burst of a volcano which gives forth no warning smoke.
The silence became oppressive.
“Did you ever know the lady?” inquired Butler, who respected no man’s
feelings, and never allowed laws of etiquette to interfere with his
curiosity.
Murray withdrew the hand slowly from his face, and looked at his
questioner with dull, dreamy eyes for some moments. The eager curiosity
in that face brought back his thoughts; he was not a man to expose his
heart long under a gaze like that.
“Yes,” he said, leaning back in his chair, “The Granby title is among
the most ancient in our country, and the more remarkable because the
entail extends to females of the blood as well as males.”
“Ha!—is that so, Johnson?” inquired Butler, quickly.
“Yes. This fact was among the secrets entrusted to my father, and
transmitted to me.”
“And the estates must be very large to allow of accumulations like the
deposits in your custody,” said Butler, keenly alive to his own
interests.
“I believe they are among the finest in England,” said Sir John, drily.
Butler started up, and walked the room, urged into action by selfish
excitement. Murray again shaded his face with one hand, while Sir John
examined the draft once more.
“Are you sure,” inquired Butler, at last, “are you sure, Sir John, that
this lady was legally married to Queen Esther’s son? for, after all,
everything depends on that.”
Sir John smiled a little sarcastically. Butler was too coarse in his
selfishness not to be understood. Murray again looked up. He evidently
felt a keen interest in the question.
“She was legally married, I fancy. Whatever might have been the cause
which drove her to the wilderness, Lady Granby was not a person to
degrade herself knowingly.”
“You fancy, Sir John! I should like to have some security besides a
man’s fancy where an inheritance like this is concerned. You are
certain, sir, that the property is entailed—that female heirs come in,
in short——”
“In short,” interrupted Sir John, with cutting sarcasm, “I have no fear
that your interests are in peril, unless there is some informality in
her mother’s marriage; your wife is the legal heiress of the Granby
estates.”
Butler sat down again, struck breathless by this unexpected good
fortune, so far beyond his wildest hopes.
“You mistook my meaning,” he said, even his coarse nature becoming
conscious of the revolting light in which his conduct must appear to any
observer; “I was thinking of Tahmeroo—she is too lovely a flower to
waste her bloom in the wilderness.”
“You grow poetical, sir,” said Sir John, laughing; “your wife’s
perfections are dawning upon you with new force.”
Butler did not appear to notice this remark, but went on with his own
train of reflection.
“Then were Catharine Montour dead, no power could deprive Tahmeroo of
the Granby estates and titles?”
“None, sir; the daughter of Gi-en-gwa-tah, the Shawnee chief, will be
Countess of Granby.”
Murray started anew at that name so rudely uttered, his hand clenched
itself on the arm of his chair, and a spasm of wounded pride contracted
his forehead. With a powerful effort he mastered himself once more, and
leaned back in his seat, with his face turned from the light, and
listening with apparent calmness to their conversation.
“And the rents,” said Butler, “the income—you have an idea of its
amount?”
“Have you never ascertained?” asked Sir John.
“Not exactly—you see, Catharine Montour dislikes to speak of anything
connected with her past life, and it is difficult to get a clear answer
from her concerning the actual amount of the property.”
“Then, sir, I, of course, am not at liberty to betray anything which she
sees fit to keep secret.”
“But there can be no treason in asking a question concerning a fortune
which will one day be my own?”
“There may be none in your asking, if you think it proper,” returned Sir
John; “but it certainly would be treachery in me to expose anything
which the lady desires to remain untold.”
“You inherit all of your father’s chivalry,” retorted Butler,
insolently. “Doubtless he had good reason for keeping the lady’s
secrets.”
A flush shot up to Sir John’s forehead, and his lips compressed
themselves suddenly; but, restraining his anger, he replied, with
unmoved courtesy:
“I trust that I possess the chivalry which should be the birthright of
every true gentleman. As for my father, no man trifles with his name or
memory here.”
“Well, that is vastly fine; but plain speech in these days helps a man
along faster than the chivalry of all the old crusaders could do,” said
Butler, carelessly. “Out in the woods here, fine speeches and poetic
sentiments are thrown away.”
“That depends entirely upon the person with whom one chances to come in
contact. I have seen as true gentlemen in the wilds of this new world as
I ever met at the court of a European sovereign.”
“Of course,” returned Butler, laughing; “you and I live here, you know,
following your grand old father’s example.”
Sir John’s lip curled, for this attempt at playfulness was even more
distasteful to him than the man’s previous conversation had been, and
without reply he resumed the scrutiny of the document which Butler had
placed in his hands.
“What the deuce could have put it into Catharine Montour’s head to come
out here and marry my dusky father-in-law?” continued the young man.
“She must have been mad—or worse——”
“Doubtless she is a better judge of her own actions than either you or
I,” replied Sir John, losing all patience with his guest.
“Oh, I’ll wager that she had some good reason,” sneered Butler,
irritated by the other’s haughtiness, and his own failure at discovering
the amount of fortune which he hoped one day to claim. “Women don’t do
those out-of-the-way things unless they are forced. Now, be honest, Sir
John, and tell me why this woman left a high position and great wealth
in her own country, and came here to act the part of a Shawnee squaw in
the valley of the Mohawk.”
“There are many good motives which might have prompted an act like
that,” said Sir John, gravely; “the good which she could do among those
ignorant savages—the forbearance and cessation from cruelty which she is
able to teach them——”
“Stuff and nonsense! Catch an old bird with chaff, if you can! No, no,
I’m not fool enough to believe that Catharine Montour came over here for
any such reason! There’s some confounded mystery somewhere, and sooner
or later I’ll get to the bottom of it. Take my head for a target, if you
don’t find that my Lady Granby had played out her game in England, and
found it convenient to disappear from among the haughty dames of
England.”
“Stop, sir!” exclaimed a low voice, that made both listeners start, as
if a thunder-clap had burst over their heads. “Couple the Lady Granby’s
name with insult again, and it is to me that you must answer for it!”
Murray had risen from his seat, and stood before the astonished man with
burning eyes and a brow of iron.
“What the deuce have I said?” muttered Butler.
“You have said that which I cannot allow to remain unanswered, Captain
Butler,” answered Sir John, with more dignity than he had yet assumed.
“One portion of your question I can answer without betraying confidence
which was sacred with Sir William, and rests so with me. You ask why a
high-born English lady forsook her own land to become the wife of an
Indian chief? Why she left England, I am not at liberty to say; but,
upon the honor of a gentleman, it was from no unworthy act or motive—her
career had been a proud and blameless one, as this gentleman can,
doubtless, testify; but the deeper reasons which influenced this
expatriation no human being except herself has ever possessed the power
to explain.”
“Nor why she took up with a swarthy Indian, when she got here—that is
one of her delicate mysteries also, I dare say,” retorted Butler,
growing insolent under the stern glances turned upon him by the English
Commissioner. “Come, come, Johnson, it’s hardly worth while exhausting
eloquence on the subject; the whole affair has given me a picturesque
little wildcat of a wife, who loves me like a tempest. Better than this,
she promises to make me a potentate one of these days, unless the
lady-mother outlives her, which may happen after all, for she has the
vigor and health of a tigress. As for disinheriting her child, or
anything of that sort, she hasn’t the power, thank my stars! But the
main question is left out, after all: how and where was Catharine
Montour married to the Shawnee chief? Was it a ceremony which our
English laws hold valid? If not, my wild bird has nothing but her pretty
plumage after all.”
“Do you consider this nothing?” said Sir John, holding up the draft.
“Faith, I don’t know. It seemed a good deal when I presented it; but now
that I have learned how much remains behind, it seems as if my queenly
mamma had treated me rather shabbily.”
“Sir John, forgive me, but you have not answered Captain Butler’s
question: by what train of circumstances was a lady so delicate in all
her tastes as Lady Granby led into a union with a savage? Surely it
could not have been of her own free will,” said the commissioner.
“If a martyr ever went to the stake of his own will—if self-abnegation
of any kind is free—this lady did voluntarily marry the Indian chief. It
was a sublime sacrifice, which every true man must regard with homage—an
act of chivalric humanity of which few women, and scarcely a man on
earth, would have been capable.”
“I can well believe it,” exclaimed Murray, with kindling eyes.
“Then she was decidedly married,” cried Butler, faithful to his
mercenary instincts, and hunting that one fact down like a hound.
“I saw her married myself, on the steps of this very mansion, where she
stood like a priestess between two races—for the hall was crowded with
whites, of which my father, Sir William, was the head; while on the
lawn, in the thickets, and all around, belting the forest, three
thousand warriors were gathered. The whole Six Nations were represented
by their bravest chiefs. It was a sight to remember one’s lifetime. The
red sunset streamed through the forest trees, only a little more
gorgeous than the savage groups that camped under them. The windows of
the Hall blazed with gold; the whole interior was illuminated. In the
flower-beds and thickets the Indians grouped themselves like flocks of
orioles, flamingos, and restless ravens. It was the most picturesque
sight I ever beheld.”
“But Caroline—Catharine Montour—what of her?” exclaimed the
commissioner, losing his self-control; “was all this savage pomp
assembled to witness the sacrifice of that noble creature?”
“Yes; in the midst of it all she stood, white as death and firm as
stone, her hand in that of the chief—a fine, noble-looking fellow he
was, too, with just enough of white blood in his veins to save the whole
thing from being repulsive. Indeed, in my whole life, I have seldom seen
a man of nobler presence. On the mother’s side, you are already
informed, he was nearly white; from her he had learned many of the
gentler graces, both of manner and costume, which made his appearance
rather picturesque than savage. Instead of a blanket or skin robe he
wore a hunting-shirt of some rich color, heavy with fringes and
embroidery; his hair was long to the shoulders, black and glossy as a
crow’s wing. After all, a woman of good taste might have been excused
for admiring the fellow for his own sake.”
The commissioner writhed in silence under this description; his eyes
burned with deep fire; his very fingers quivered with suppressed
excitement.
“And she was married thus?” he questioned, in a hoarse whisper.
“Yes, it was done bravely before the whites assembled in my father’s
hall; before the Six Nation, swarming upon the grounds. Her lips were
white as snow when the vow passed them; her eyes burned like a
she-eagle’s when her young is threatened; she clenched the chief’s hand
till even he must have felt the pain. Yes, it was bravely done; she had
promised, and no entreaty could move her to reconsider the matter. Sir
William, who was not much given to sentiment, besought her with tears in
his eyes to desist; the women who crowded the hall wept like children;
but she stood firm; I can almost hear her deep, ringing voice now, as
she answered the priest.”
“Then it was a marriage by the priest!” almost shouted Butler, dashing
the handle of his knife down on the table, till the plate rang again.
“She had pledged herself to become the chief’s wife, and was a
Christian—how could she keep her vow, except by Christian rites. He had
honorably fulfilled her conditions—she as honorably redeemed her
promise.”
“What were those conditions?” inquired the commissioner, and his voice
became lower and hoarser each moment.
“The redemption of three white prisoners from torture.”
“Three prisoners—three?”
“Yes, a gentleman, his wife, and child, taken on the Canada frontier.”
“And when was this?”
Sir John mentioned the date rather carelessly; he was pouring out a
glass of wine, and did not observe the wild anxiety with which his guest
awaited this answer.
“Oh, my God—my God!”
His arms spread themselves on the table, his face fell between them,
while a terrible burst of passion shook him from limb to centre.
“Oh, my God—my God!”
It was all he could say; the words were suffocating him as they rose.
The host and Butler looked at each other in silent amazement. An
earthquake could not have surprised them more. Even Butler was awed by
an outbreak of feeling, the more impressive because of the apparent
composure that had preceded it.
At last Murray lifted his head; every feature was quivering with
emotion—joy, regret, sharp pain, and wild triumph struggled there.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “it was I—it was my wife and child whose lives
Lady Granby bought by the horrible sacrifice. Till to-night I was
ignorant of all this—ignorant that she yet lived. You will not wonder
that I am unmanned.”
“But she never mentioned your name, Mr. Murray,” said Sir John.
“Perhaps she did not know. She might have done as much for strangers
even; upon the broad earth there does not exist a woman so capable of
great sacrifices.”
Butler laughed, and looked meaningly at his host.
“I dare say it was no great sacrifice, after all,” he said. “By Sir
John’s account, the Indian was as handsome as a young Apollo——”
“Stop!”
The word flew from Murray’s lips like a hot bolt, his eyes flashed fire.
“Another word against that lady, here or elsewhere, and I will hold you
to a sharp account, young man!”
Murray passed around the table as he spoke, laid his hand with a heavy
pressure on Butler’s shoulder, and bowing to Sir John, passed from the
room and the house. Before either of the gentlemen left behind had
recovered from their surprise, the sound of a horse’s hoofs galloping
down the hard carriage road warned them of Murray’s abrupt departure
from the Hall.
“Well, upon my word, this is high tragedy!” exclaimed Butler, recovering
from his stupor of cowardly astonishment. “What the deuce did I say that
need have aroused a tempest like that?”
“Common decency, sir,” said Sir John, for a moment yielding to his
better feelings, “should have prevented your expressing such doubt of
any woman; least of all, of one who is the mother of your wife.”
“Well, well, let it rest—we won’t quarrel. I have no reason to think
hardly of the Countess of Granby. Relations should agree,” he continued,
uttering the name with pompous pride, as if feeling that the title
reflected honor upon him. “Come, Sir John, let’s talk seriously.”
“Concerning what, sir?”
“This fortune, of course—these estates.”
“I can give you no farther information, Mr. Butler; any future knowledge
that you may desire must be obtained from Catharine Montour herself.”
Butler pushed back his chair with a muttered oath, then remembering how
impolitic a quarrel with Sir John might prove, he drew towards the table
again and smoothed his forehead, endeavoring to fall into a more
friendly and familiar style of conversation, an effort in which he was
not at first seconded by his companion.
“Well, let the wigwam rest for once; we have talked about these things
long enough,” he said, with a great effort, wrenching his thoughts from
the Granby estates. “What does this crusty Don want at Johnson Hall,
when he leaves it with so little ceremony?”
“Oh,” answered Sir John, firing up, and draining glass after glass of
wine while he was speaking; “he is a sort of commissioner from the king,
sent to keep us all in order—our mode of warfare does not suit his
taste, he was just making an eloquent protest against bringing Indians
into the service, as you came in.”
“And be hanged to him!” cried Butler, filling his glass. “Why, we might
as well strike our tents at once; the savages work beautifully—besides
they make capital scapegoats when we wish to indulge in a little of
their amusements; upon my word, Johnson, there’s a sort of relish in
their way of scalping and roasting a traitor when he comes in, that has
its charm; do away with the savages! why, that would be throwing aside
buckler and cloak, too.”
“I told him so plainly enough,” said Sir John, whom the wine was making
more and more social. “Why, Schuyler himself could not have preached
mercy with more eloquence; he a king’s commissioner. I wish the Indians
had roasted him when they had the chance—to come here lecturing me, a
Johnson, of Johnson Hall; as if I had not been outraged and insulted
enough by General Schuyler and his minions at Guy Park.”
“Is it true, Sir John, that Schuyler forced you into giving up the
stores and ammunition which had been gathered here at the Hall?”
“Forced is a strong word, captain,” answered Sir John, turning red with
the humiliating remembrances brought up by the rough question; “he
required my word of honor not to act against Congress, and demanded the
arms, stores, and accoutrements held by our friends, and the Indians. I
refused to comply, and he marched upon the Hall; I sent for our Indian
allies, and for you. My messenger found Queen Esther almost alone in the
Seneca Lake encampment. The whole tribe were gone to hold a council-fire
in Wyoming. You were away, no one could guess where. After this fashion,
Captain Butler, was I sustained by my friends.”
“Faith, I had no idea of Schuyler’s movement till the escort came in
with Catharine Montour, who would force me to stay and get my hands
tied; but the very day after our wild wedding I was on the road,” said
Butler.
Sir John grew more and more excited.
“I could have driven the traitors back with my brave Highlanders,
without going beyond the estate, for he started with only seven hundred
men, but the Tryon county militia turned out like wasps, and increased
his force to three thousand; with no hopes of reinforcement from you or
your father, my Indian allies absent, and no time for preparation, I was
compelled to negotiate, and to a certain extent succumb, but it was only
for a time; to-morrow you must ride over to Fonda and collect our
forces. Brant is hard at work among the Senecas. Where have you left
Gi-en-gwa-tah with his warriors?”
“They are on the lake by this time.”
“That is good news, we will soon have them at work; my tenants are all
under arms; I expect Brant to join us in a few days, with an account of
his organization. We will give the rebels a hot reception the next time
they venture into this county, or——”
Sir John broke off with a quick exclamation; the loud gallop of a horse
approaching the house brought both the baronet and his guest to their
feet.
“What is that?” said Sir John, listening; “surely not the Hon. Mr.
Murray returning—no, no, he would keep the road; but this fellow rides
over everything. Now that hoof strikes the turf, now the gravel; it can
be no good tidings that bring any one here in such hot haste at this
hour. I must learn at once what it means.”
He rose hurriedly from his seat, and Butler followed, but before they
reached the door it opened, and one of Sir John’s slaves, a faithful and
confidential old servant, entered the room, evidently in great agitation
and fear.
“What is it, Pompey?” Sir John asked.
“There is a man wants to speak to massar right off; something very
’portant: them consarned Whigs is up again.”
“Call him in—be quick, Pomp!” exclaimed Sir John. “What can these
traitors be at now?” he continued, as the servant left the room to
execute his order.
“I thought you would get into difficulty with them about this time,”
replied Butler; “they begin to suspect that you haven’t kept that
extorted promise very faithfully—your Highlanders have come out too
boldly, and begun to worry the enemy—they are sure of re-enforcements.”
“A promise made to a set of traitors!” said Sir John, scornfully; “only
wait till the time comes that I can crush them like so many vipers;
miserable rebels!”
Before Butler could answer, the door was opened again, and Pompey
ushered into the room a man whose disordered garments betrayed the haste
in which he had arrived.
“Your errand?” cried Sir John, imperiously—“don’t waste words, but speak
out!”
“The rebel Congress has taken measures against you,” returned the man,
bluntly, “and a company of soldiers are on their way here to take you
prisoner.”
“This does look like earnest,” said Butler, with a prolonged whistle;
“what is the cue now, Sir John?”
“How near are they?” inquired the baronet.
“They will reach here in an hour, at the farthest—you have no time to
spare.”
“An hour—so, so! We shall see—they haven’t caught the fox yet! Where is
Mr. Murray, Pomp?”
“Gone, massar; the commissioner rode off half an hour ago; said he
wasn’t gwine to come back.”
“Confound him!” muttered Butler; “he’d be little help, I fancy. What
shall you do, Sir John—no chance to stand a fight.”
“Fight—no! Curse them, they have left me neither arms nor ammunition;
there’s nothing for it but to decamp in double-quick time, and take our
revenge after.”
“Who has command?” asked Butler.
“Congress ordered General Schuyler to take measures, and he commissioned
Colonel Dayton with the command of the expedition.”
“Which will prove a fruitless one, unless my lucky star has deserted
me,” said the baronet. “Here, Pomp, I can trust you. Collect all the
plate, and put it in the iron chest that stands in my office.”
“What are you going to do with it?” inquired Butler.
“Bury it deep, as I wish these infernal rebels were. You don’t think I
intend to leave it for them, do you? Be alive Pomp; I’ll bring you the
papers and valuables out of my chamber, and do the work yourself
quietly, without saying a word to any one.”
“Yes, massar—trust old Pomp for that.”
“I know I can, you sooty villain; you are one of the few men, black or
white, in whom one can place confidence.”
“Tank yer, massar,” and the old slave grasped his hand with fervor.
“Now, do yer get off, and leave me to manage eberyting; dem rebels ain’t
cute enough for dis yer chile, I’se willin’ to bet; ha, ha!”
“Take care of yourself, Pomp—I must leave you behind. What’s that, now?”
he cried, breaking off hurriedly.
“Another swift rider,” said Butler. “Can it be the rebels?”
“Quick, massar—don’t lose a minute!”
“It isn’t them,” interrupted the messenger; “I rode like the wind—they
cannot have so nearly overtaken me.”
“See who it is, Pomp—some friend, perhaps—if it only proves so, I should
like to give them a hot welcome.”
Before the negro could obey, the door was flung open, and a muscular,
powerful man strode into the room.
“Brant!” exclaimed both gentlemen at once.
“Yes, Brant,” returned the man, in a deep, stern voice. “Like a fool, I
left the Indians to follow me, or we would give the rascals down yonder
hot work.”
“Then you have brought me no help, Colonel?”
“Not fifty men; you must run for it this time.”
The savage uttered the words in a tone of sullen wrath which betrayed
his deep hatred of the Whigs. His hand clutched unconsciously over the
hilt of his knife, and a terrible frown settled upon the heavy darkness
of his forehead. He was a picturesque object in spite of the evil
expression of his features. Like his manner, the dress that he wore was
a singular mingling of the Indian costume and the attire of the whites.
Under his frock of deer-skin was buttoned a military vest, doubtless the
spoil taken from some one of his numerous victims, and over his
shoulders was flung an Indian blanket, worn with the grace of a regal
mantle. His long, black hair fell in dull masses about his neck, and
from under his shaggy brows blazed his unquiet eyes with a deadly fire
from which the bravest might well have recoiled.
“Do you go with me, Brant?” asked Sir John.
“Yes, Brant will be your guide. Queen Esther is not many miles away with
a portion of her tribe; you will find protection among them.”
“Is Catharine Montour there?” interrupted Butler.
“No, she rests at Seneca Lake; the young woman whom you have made your
wife is with her. Sir John, you have no time to lose in useless
questions—is all ready?”
“In one moment. Here, Pomp, come to my chamber.”
They went out; and in a few moments Sir John returned, prepared for
flight.
“Choose your best horse,” said Brant; “we must take to the forest at
once, for there we have friends.”
They followed him into the hall, through the open door of which were
visible their horses, ready for a start.
“Stop!” exclaimed Brant, “I must leave a sign behind.”
He mounted the stairs, and brandishing his tomahawk, began making deep
gashes in the balustrade at a distance of about a foot apart.
“What the deuce are you doing?” exclaimed the men, in astonishment.
The renegade made no reply, but continued his work to the top of the
staircase.
“The house is safe now,” he said, as he came down again. “Should it be
attacked by the Indians during your absence, they will leave it
uninjured.”
“You leave a stern mark, Colonel,” said Butler, glancing up at the
hacked wood.
“That Brant always does—he will leave a more lasting one, though, on
these rebels before long.”
The party hurried into the open air and mounted their horses, but before
they could gallop away, Pompey rushed out and grasped his master’s
bridle.
“It’s all safe, Massar John,” he whispered; “let ’em come now as soon as
they like; this chile has matched ’em.”
“That’s a fine fellow—hold them at bay, Pompey—I shall see you
again—keep a good heart.”
“Good-by, massar—come back ’fore long—old Pompey’ll keep dem ’ere silver
platters, and milk-jugs, and all de cetras safe as de dead folks in ’em
graves—you can ’pend on dat, massar.”
“Good-by, Pomp—good-by!”
They put their horses into a gallop, and rode away through the forest.
For many moments no one spoke, and the only sound that arose was the
smothered beat of their horses’ hoofs on the turf, and the mournful
shiver of the leaves, as the wind sighed through them. Brant took the
lead, tracking the narrow path as unerringly as if it had been a
highway. Suddenly he checked his horse, and made a signal to his
companions to halt.
“The rebels are coming,” he said; “they have got on our traces.”
They listened; the heavy tramp of steeds came up from the distance.
“They will overtake us!” exclaimed Sir John; “what are we to do, Brant?”
“Let them pass—we will baffle them yet—follow me—we know the woods, at
any rate.”
He turned aside from the path, and urged his horse through the
underbrush, followed by his companions, until he reached a little dell,
through which a brook crept with a pleasant gurgle.
“They will go on, and so miss us,” he said, reining in his horse. “If we
had only our guns now!”
Nearer and nearer came the tramp of the horses—rushing past the dell in
hot pursuit, and growing fainter in the distance.
“They have gone by,” said Butler. “Oh, for a good rifle—I’d have one
shot!”
“We must take another path,” said Brant; “keep a tight rein, gentlemen.”
While he was glancing around in the starlit gloom for some trace to
guide his course, there came up a sudden cry from the depths of the
forest; the trees were illuminated by torches, and in an instant they
were surrounded by their pursuers.
“This way,” shouted Brant; “they are upon us!”
He urged his horse through the woods, closely followed by his
companions. Butler was last; his horse slipped in ascending the bank,
rolled over, carrying his rider with him. The rest fled, ignorant of his
misfortune, and before he could free himself from his saddle the
pursuers had surrounded him.
“Is it the baronet?” asked one.
They flashed a torch in his face, and at the sight of those features a
simultaneous cry went up:
“The Tory Butler! Tie him fast!”
Butler struggled and attempted to draw back; he was speedily overpowered
by numbers; his hands tied, and himself bound upon a horse. After a
brief consultation, they resigned the pursuit of Sir John, and turned to
retrace their steps, with the prisoner in their midst.
When the fugitives drew rein, to breathe their horses, they perceived
for the first time that Walter Butler was missing.
“They have caught him!” exclaimed Sir John.
“Fool!” said Brant, contemptuously. “He deserves hanging, but I am sorry
it happened; Queen Esther likes him, and I would rather encounter a
troop of fiends than her tongue, when she learns what has happened.”
“But we are not to blame—we were powerless to assist him, and——”
“As if that would change her mind! No, no; I can promise you a hot
welcome. But it is not for her interest to risk a serious quarrel with
us, and her majesty looks to that, I can tell you.”
They rode on for another hour in security, and on reaching a break in
the forest, the camp-fires of the Indians became visible in the valley
below.
“Here we are,” said Brant; “now for Queen Esther.”
They rode into the camp, and Brant was received by the savages with
demonstrations of joy.
“Where is the queen?” he asked, in the Shawnee dialect.
“Yonder is her tent—she is still watching.”
“Follow me, Johnson,” said Brant; “we must pacify the old tigress before
she shows her teeth.”
“But I am not in fault.”
“Make her believe it then!”
“But she will not dare——”
“She would dare everything! But you are in no danger—only be ready to
receive every sort of invective that a woman’s tongue can invent, or the
fury of a she-panther give birth to.”
They moved towards the tent; Brant seized his companion by the arm and
drew back, for that moment the heavy matting which fell before the tent
was flung suddenly aside, and Queen Esther stood before them—not fierce
and wild, as Sir John had expected to find her, but with the sharp, cool
look of a person so used to adventure that nothing could surprise her.
Though a tall woman, she was scarcely imposing in her person, for a life
of sharp action had made her nerves steel, and her muscles iron; of
flesh she had only enough to bind these tough threads of vitality
together. The rest was all intellect and stern passion.
As if in scorn of all those wild or gentle vanities, which are beautiful
weaknesses in the sex, both in the wigwam and drawing-room, Esther
allowed no bright color or glittering ornament to soften the grey of a
stern old age, which hung about her like a garment; her doe-skin robe,
soft, pliant, and of a dull buff color, had neither embroidery of wampum
or silk; her leggings were fringed with chipped leather; and over her
shoulders was flung a blanket of fine silver-grey cloth, gathered at the
bosom by a small stiletto, with a handle of embossed platina, and a
short, keen blade that glittered like the tongue of a viper, and worn as
a Roman woman arranged her garments in the time of the Cæsars. Her hair
was white as snow, silvery as moonlight, and so abundant, even at eighty
years of age, that it folded around her head in a single coil, like a
turban. The high, narrow forehead, the aquiline nose, curved with time,
like the beak of an eagle, and the sharp, restless eyes, stood out from
beneath this woof of hair stern and clear, as if chiselled from stone.
The very presence of old age rendered this woman majestic.
She paused a moment in the entrance of her tent; a torch burnt within,
sending its resinous smoke around her, as she appeared clearly revealed,
with a background of dull crimson—for the tent was lined with cloth of
this warm tint, and she stood against it, like a grey ghost breaking out
from the depths of a dusky sunset.
“Are you friends or enemies?” she inquired, shading her eyes from the
smoky torch-light with a hand that looked like a dead oak-leaf.
“Who but friends would dare to enter Queen Esther’s camp at night?”
answered Brant, stepping forward. “You and I are on the same hunt; our
warpaths cross each other here, that is all.”
“Ha, Colonel Brant, this is well! I had dispatched a swift runner in
search of you. Schuyler has sent a force of armed men into Tryon County,
and the settlements are astir. Gi-en-gwa-tah was away when the news
came, but I have brought his warriors forward. Our spies send word that
they threaten the master of Johnson Hall.”
“He is here,” said Brant, pointing to Sir John; “we got news of Dayton’s
approach just in time to fly.”
“In time to fly! Were there no armed men upon the estate, that you
should sneak away from your ancestral hall, like a dog which fears the
lash? This was not the way that your father defended himself, young
man.”
“There were but three of us, besides the servants,” said Brant, laying
his hand heavily on Sir John’s arm, to prevent the sharp reply which
sprang to the baronet’s lips; “there was no time to summon the tenants;
even your new grandson, Walter Butler, counselled escape to the forest,
where we can organize at leisure and sweep down upon the rebels when
they least expect us.”
“Walter Butler—the husband of my granddaughter—and is he with you?”
Esther spoke without emphasis, and with an intonation sharp as the ring
of steel; there was neither softness, anger nor surprise in that voice.
She turned her keen glance from Brant to Johnson, questioning them both.
“He was with us a few minutes ago,” answered Sir John, whose indignation
was aroused by this cutting composure, “but an ambush scattered us in
the woods, and he has not come in yet.”
A cold glitter shot into Queen Esther’s eyes; her lips sunk with a quick
pressure, and almost lost themselves between the contracted nostrils and
the protruding chin. She beckoned to the Indian who had stood sentinel
before her tent, uttered a few words of his own language in a whisper,
that sounded like the suppressed hiss of a snake, and, with a slow sweep
of the hand, passed from before her guests suddenly and softly, as a
cloud precedes the tempest.
“A cold reception this,” said Sir John, when his hostess was swallowed
up in the night. “Is her serene highness about to grill us for the loss
of her cub?”
“From her quietness I should think it likely,” said Brant. “When her
majesty grows polite and silky, it is a sure proof that she intends to
strike. Like a leopard, she never shows her nails in earnest till the
paw falls. She is a wonderful woman—the only person in all the Six
Nations whose influence can oppose mine!”
“But you cannot really think she intends us any harm,” said Sir John,
whose bravery was not always bullet-proof.
“Don’t trust her! If she finds out, or fancies that we have got Butler
into this scrape she will make smooth work of it. I have seen her shave
off a head, as if it had been an over-ripe thistle, with her own hand.
Her tomahawk is sharp, and quick as lightning. It is the only thing she
is dainty about: the head is burnished with gold, and the ebony handle
worn smooth as glass is richly veined with coral and mother-of-pearl.
That which other women lavish on their persons she exhausts upon her
arms. But for your comfort, Sir John, if Queen Esther ornaments them
like a woman, she wields them like a man. No warrior of her tribe
strikes so sure a blow.”
“But she will not dare!”
“I should not wonder if the Earl of Essex said as much when he lay in
the Tower; but his faith did not prevent Elizabeth, whom I can’t help
thinking a good deal like our savage queen here, chopping off his head.”
“But you are powerful—more powerful among the savages than she can
be—and I——”
“Yes, with three thousand warriors at my back; but just now my
body-guard is scattered, and if this lady-tiger chooses to tie us up to
the next tree, and give her people a human barbecue, I could only fight
single-handed like yourself.”
“Hark! they are gathering now,” said Johnson, turning pale. “How quietly
she does her work!”
Brant listened, and cast a sharp glance around the encampment. A low,
humming noise came from its outer margin, like that of a hive of bees
swarming; he began to be really alarmed.
“Surely she is not so mad!” he muttered, grasping the handle of his
tomahawk. “A man would not dare—but this creature has enough of her sex
to be uncertain, if nothing more.”
The noise that had startled him, instead of increasing, died away. He
looked keenly forward; a train of human beings swept out from the heart
of the camp, headed by a single horse, whose tramp echoed harshly back
from the mellow sound of a hundred pair of retreating moccasins.
“By the great Medicine, she has left the camp!” almost shouted Brant. “I
tell you, Sir John, that woman would shame the bravest officer in your
king’s army.”
As he spoke a savage came forward and addressed Brant. A tent had been
pitched near that of Queen Esther, and she had politely left an
invitation that he and the baronet would take possession of it, and rest
after their journey.
“This does not look like _auto-da-fe_,” said Sir John, preparing to
accept the invitation.
“The more for this politeness,” was the answer, “as I told you. Queen
Esther carries the etiquette of her father’s court even into her son’s
camp. The daughter of a French governor, the widow and mother of
savages, is always courteously cruel. We shall see what all this means
when she returns.”
“Why wait for that? Supposing we take to the woods again. My cousin Guy
must be in force somewhere in the district; I have no fancy for
hospitality like this.”
“Take to the woods!” cried Brant, with a scornful laugh—“what, run from
a woman? Not I; besides, Sir John, just look at this fellow—with all his
sullen civility, he is nothing more nor less than a guard set to watch
us. So make the best on’t; till the fate of that scoundrel Butler is
ascertained, we are nothing more nor less than prisoners.”
“But what if the rebels have killed him?”
“No danger,” cried Brant, with a scornful lift of the shoulder, which
made all the fringes on his hunting-shirt rattle again; “the fellow
wasn’t born to be killed in honest battle! he’ll turn up somewhere,
depend on’t. So as the tent is ready, and our guard of honor set, let’s
take a little rest while the old silver headed dame settles our fate.”
Brant strode off to the tent as he spoke, followed by Sir John, who was
not a little crestfallen and apprehensive. Up to this time he had met
the Indians as a monarch musters his vassals, on the steps of his
father’s hall, with wealth, power, and a vast tenantry to back him. Now
he was a fugitive, separated from his followers, in the hands of a woman
exasperated by the loss of her favorite, and evidently filled with scorn
of his cowardly desertion both of the home of his ancestors, and the
companion of his flight. It was an unpleasant position, and one which
Brant maliciously rendered more distressing by his cool review of the
dangers that surrounded them. The crafty and brave Indian gloated over
the cowardly fears of his companion, for in the depths of his heart he
both hated and despised his white allies. It was his happiness to
torment them whenever the opportunity arose. Though a willing tool in
their hands, he was not a blind one.
Meantime Queen Esther swept on with her train of warriors into the
forest. A savage ran before her horse, searching out the trail with his
keen eyes. He was one of the Indians that had followed Brant from the
Hall. As she rode along, Queen Esther questioned this man in a cautious
voice till she had gathered all the information he possessed.
“So you took shelter in the deep cut, and he was lost? Wheel to the
left; there is a shorter cut—they will return to the Hall. On!”
Quick and sinuous as a serpent might alter his course, the train of
savages swept on one side, and darted off in a run, following their
stern leader. For a full hour they kept forward, steady, silent, and
swift, threading the wilderness as a flash of lightning cuts through a
storm cloud.
“Hist!”
It was the Indian scout who came running back with one hand uplifted.
“Hist—hist!” The word ran like a serpent’s hiss through the whole train,
and every moccasin rested in its track.
Queen Esther dismounted, and a savage tied her horse to a tree. Again
that low hiss ran through the line, and it swept forward. Scarcely a
branch swayed, scarcely a stick of brushwood crackled: the wind sighing
in the tree-tops made a louder noise than all that band of fierce human
beings.
Crash, tramp, crash—the sound which the scout had detected came sharp
and clear now. Hoofs beat the turf, oaths rang on the air. The rush of a
quick progress swept back louder and louder. In the oath, Queen Esther
detected the voice of Butler.
“Ha!” she said, sharply, “he is alive. Faster, faster; but more
silently. Are your rifles ready?”
She was answered by the sharp click of flints. Again that silent sweep
of human beings. They moved more boldly now for the close beat of hoofs
bore down the faint noise of their moccasins.
Again Esther whispered the word of command. The cavalcade were in sight.
One horseman, carrying a lantern on his saddle-bow, revealed the rest.
With a sudden manœuvre a detachment of savages, headed by Queen Esther,
threw themselves in front of the party. Quick as thought, the rest fell
into place, surrounding the enemy with a triple hedge of men—a wall of
rifles bristled around the doomed group.
The leader was taken by surprise and reined back his horse. The motion
exposed his left side; crack! a bullet passed through him. The horse
reared, plunged, and fell dead, striking against his nearest companion.
Before the revolutionists could reach their holsters, it was too late.
Some turned to fly, but the flash of muskets, shedding lurid fire among
the green leaves, met them everywhere. A few broke the lines, and rushed
away, wounded and bleeding. Three or four escaped unhurt, and fled like
madmen into the deep forest. Queen Esther took no prisoners, but shot
down her enemies in their track. Shrieks of pain and sharp cries of
defiance answered to the storm of her bullets. Her blood rose, the fiery
serpent in that woman’s heart crested itself. She shrieked to her
followers, urging them on, and flinging her scalping-knife into the
melée, called aloud for trophies.
Stern and terrible was that conflict, the more terrible because it
occupied but a few minutes. The candle that burned in that lantern where
it had dropped, was not the fraction of an inch shorter, and yet more
than twenty souls had been torn out of life in that brief time.
“Now,” cried Queen Esther, cutting the thongs that bound Butler’s
wrists, and sheathing her red scalping-knife, “catch their horses, mount
and follow me to the camp. Some few stay behind, and kill those who are
not quite dead. Remember, every rebel’s scalp is worth a piece of silver
and a bottle of firewater—on!”
She took the stiletto from her bosom, pricked her black steed on the
shoulder, and was carried away, with Butler by her side, sweeping that
train of red warriors like a whirlwind through the darkness.
A few hours after, they came thundering into the camp; Queen Esther
dismounted, without a flush on her cheek or a quickened breath to tell
of the dreadful work she had done. Just as gravely and coldly as she had
left the camp, she preceded Butler to the tent provided for her guests.
Brant stood in the entrance with exultation in his eyes.
“I expected as much,” he said. “In the whole Six Tribes there is no
warrior like Queen Esther. You see, Sir John, our heads are safe; the
victorious are always generous. Well, Butler, I did not expect to see
you again to-night.”
“And so left me to be rescued by a woman. I thank you,” said Butler
sullenly.
Brant’s massive features broke into a smile.
“Tush,” he said; “a man who suffers himself to be taken prisoner by a
handful of rebels deserves no better. I am not leagued with your white
troopers to pick up the fools that drop off in a skirmish; men who
surrender without even a blow of the fist should be left to the women.”
“Take care!” answered Butler, fiercely; “you have indulged in these
taunts more than is wholesome for you. At any rate, you are not hired to
insult the king’s officers.”
“Hired!” said Brant; “hired!”
“Yes, hired; do your people bring in a scalp which is not paid for in so
much gold or silver? It is a better business than trapping mink, and so
you take it.”
Not another word passed between those two men, but their fierce eyes met
as Butler turned upon his heel and left the tent, and that glance told
of the mortal enmity which must henceforth exist between them. Still
they slept under the same blanket for an hour or two before the day
broke that morning.