There was the fate of another connected with the events of that night,
of whom some notice must be taken, from the influence which his
destiny exercised over the destinies of all. With greater promptness
and celerity than had been expected from him, even by those who knew
him best, Walter Prevost had executed the business entrusted to him,
and was ready to set out from Albany, a full day, at least, before his
return had been expected by his family. Fortune had favoured him, it
is true. He had found the commander-in-chief in the city, and at
leisure. A man of a prompt and active mind had readily appreciated the
promptitude and activity of the lad; and his business had been
despatched as readily as circumstances permitted.
A boat sailing up the Hudson with some stores and goods for traffic
was found to convey him a considerable way on his journey; and he was
landing at a point on the western bank of the river, some seventeen
miles from his father's house, at the very moment that Mr. Prevost,
Lord H----, and Edith, were mounting by the side of the little lake to
pursue their journey.
The way before him was rough and uneven, and the path somewhat
intricate; but he thought he knew it sufficiently to make his way by
it, before sunset, to a better known part of the country, and he
hurried on with youthful confidence and vigour. His rifle in his hand,
his knapsack on his shoulder, and a good large hunting-knife in his
belt, with great agility of limbs and no small portion of bodily
vigour, he would have proved no contemptible opponent in the presence
of any single enemy. But he never thought of enemies; and all in his
bosom was courage, and joy, and expectation.
Whatever great cities, and camps, and courts might have offered,
Albany, at least, a small provincial capital, filled with a staid and
somewhat rigid people, and only enlivened by the presence of a
regiment or two of soldiers, had no attraction for him; and he was
heartily glad to escape from it again, to the free life around his
paternal dwelling, and to the society of his father and Edith--and
Otaitsa.
Steadily he went along, climbed the hills, strode along the plain, and
forded the river. The traces of cultivation soon became fewer, and
then ceased; and, following resolutely the path before him, two hours
passed before he halted, even to look around. Then, however, he paused
for a minute or two to consider his onward course.
Two or three Indian trails crossed at the spot where he stood, one of
them so deeply indented in the ground as to show that its frequent use
existed from a very ancient date. Its course seemed to lie in the
direction in which he wanted to go, and he thought he remembered
having followed it some months before. Across it ran the settlers'
way, broader and better marked out, but not very direct to his
father's house; and he was hesitating which he should take, when the
sound of creaking wheels, and the common cry used by ploughmen and
teamsters to their cattle, showed him that some one was coming, who
was likely to give him better information. That information seemed the
more necessary, as the day was already far on the decline; and he had
not yet reached a spot of which he could be certain.
A moment or two after, coming up the lane in the wood, as we should
call it in England, appeared a heavy ox-waggon, drawn by four stout
steers, and loaded with three women and a number of boxes; while by
the side of the rude vehicle appeared three men on foot, and one on
horseback, each very well armed, together with no less than five dogs
of different descriptions.
Walter instantly recognised in the horseman the farmer who lived some
ten miles to the south-west of his father's house. The farmer was a
good-humoured, kindly-hearted man, honest enough, but somewhat selfish
in his way; always wishing to have the best of a bargain, if it could
be obtained without absolute _roguery_, yet willing enough to share
the fruits of his labour or his cunning with any one who might be in
need.
On the present occasion, however, he was either sullen or stupid; and
it was indeed clear that both he and his male companions had been
drinking quite enough to dull the edge of intellect in some degree.
Those on foot went on, without even stopping the oxen to speak with
their young neighbour; and the farmer himself only paused, for a
moment or two, to answer Walter's questions.
"Why, Mr. Whitter," said the young gentleman, "you seem to be moving
with all your family."
"Ay, ay," answered the farmer, a look of dull cunning rising to his
face. "I don't like the look of things. I've had a hint. I guess there
are other places better than the forest just now--though not so warm,
mayhap."
"Why, what is the matter?" asked Walter; "has anything happened?"
"Oh no," answered the farmer, looking uncomfortable, and giving his
bridle a little sort of jerk, as if he wished to pass on. "The
forest's too full of Ingians for my notion; but as you and your father
are so fond of them and they of you, there's no harm will come to you,
I guess."
His manner was almost uncivil; and Walter moved out of his way without
even asking the question he had intended. The man passed on; but
suddenly he seemed to think better of the matter, and turning round in
the saddle called out, in a voice much louder than necessary
considering the distance between them--
"I say, Master Walter, if you're going home, you'd better take that
deep trail to the right, I guess. It's shorter and safer; and them red
devils, or some other vermin, have set fire to the wood on there. It's
not much of a thing just yet, but there's no knowing how it will
spread. However, if you keep to the west, you'll get on. I'm going to
more civilized parts for a month or two, seeing I have got all my
crops in safe."
As soon as these words were uttered, he turned and rode after his
waggon; and Walter at once took the Indian trail which the other had
mentioned. About half a mile farther on, for the first time, he
perceived the smell of smoke; and as soon as he reached the summit of
another hill beyond, the whole scene of the conflagration was before
his eyes. Between the spot where he stood and his father's house
stretched a broad belt of fire and smoke, extending a full mile to the
north farther than he had expected from the vague account of the
farmer; and the cloud of brownish vapour had rolled so far up the
opposite slope, that the lad could neither see the dwelling itself,
nor distinguish what spot the fire had actually reached.
Ignorant of the absence of his father and sister, and well aware how
rapidly the flame extended when once kindled in a wood after a long
season of dry weather, Walter's heart sank as he gazed. But he lost no
time in useless hesitation. The sun was already setting, the distance
was still considerable, and he resolved to break through that fiery
circle, if it were possible, and reach his home at once.
Onward he plunged, then down the side of the hill; and the moment he
descended the whole scene was shut out from his sight so completely
that, but for the strong and increasing smell of burning pinewood, and
a feeling of unnatural warmth, he would have had no intimation that a
fire was raging close at hand. As he came nearer and nearer, however,
a certain rushing sound met his ear, something like that of a heavy
gale of wind sweeping the forest, and the smoke became suffocating;
while through the branches and stems of the trees a red light shone,
especially towards the south and west, showing where the fire raged
with the greatest fierceness.
Breathing thick and fast, he hurried on, lighted by the flames alone,
for the sun had sunk by this time, and the dense cloud of smoke which
hung over this part of the wood shut out every star, till at length he
reached the very verge of the conflagration. Some hundreds of acres
lay before him, with trees, some fallen one over the other, some still
standing, but deprived of foliage, and with masses of brushwood and
long trailing parasites, all in fiery confusion and glowing with
intense heat.
To proceed in that direction he felt was death. He could hardly
breathe; his face seemed scorched and burning; and yet the drops of
perspiration rolled heavily from his forehead. Retreating a little to
escape the heat, he turned his steps northward; but by this time he
had lost the trail, and was forcing his way through the brushwood,
encumbered by his rifle and knapsack, when, suddenly, by the light of
the fire shining through the trees, he saw a dark figure, some twenty
or thirty yards before him, waving to him eagerly and apparently
calling to him also. The roar and crackling of the burning wood were
too loud for any other sounds to be heard, but the gestures of the
figure seemed to direct him towards the south again, and obeying the
signs, he soon found himself once more upon an Indian trail.
The next instant, the figure he had seen was upon the same path, and a
little nearer. It was that of an Indian; but, in the smoky light,
Walter Prevost could not distinguish the tribe or nation. He advanced
cautiously, then, with his thumb upon the cock of the rifle; but, as
soon as he was within hearing, the man called to him, in the Oneida
tongue, and in a friendly tone, telling him to follow, and warning him
that death lay to the westward.
Thrown off his guard by such signs of interest, the lad advanced with
a quick step, and was soon close to his guide, though the man walked
fast.
"Is the house burnt, brother?" asked the youth, eagerly.
"What, the lodge of the pale-face?" returned the Indian. "No--it
stands fast."
"Thank God for that!" ejaculated Walter Prevost, in English.
But the words had hardly passed his lips, when he suddenly felt his
arms seized; his rifle was wrested from his hands, and he himself cast
backward on the ground. Two savage faces glared above him, and he
expected to see the gleam of the deadly tomahawk the next instant.
"What now?" he exclaimed, in Oneida; "am I not your brother? Am I not
the son of the Black Eagle--the friend of the children of the Stone?"
There was no answer; but in dead silence the Indians proceeded with
rapid hands to bind his arms with thongs of deer-skin, and then,
raising him on his feet, forced him to retread his steps along the
very trail which had brought him thither.