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THIS view out from the gorge of the Highlands presents a foreground of
cliff and shadow, with their reflections almost folded across in the
bosom of the river, and a middle ground of the village of Newburg and
the gently-undulating country in the rear. The blue and far-off line of
the Catskills shuts in the horizon.
There is some very romantic scenery hidden among the undulations just
mentioned, embracing several small rivers, and also a romantic stream
called Murderer’s Creek,—a tributary of the Hudson. Mr. Paulding, in
his “New Mirror for Travellers,” gives the following interesting legend
in explanation of the name:—
“Little more than a century ago, the beautiful region watered by this
stream was possessed by a small tribe of Indians, which has long since
become extinct, or been incorporated with some other savage nation of
the West. Three or four hundred yards from where the stream discharges
itself into the Hudson, a white family of the name of Stacey had
established itself in a log-house by tacit permission of the tribe, to
whom Stacey had made himself useful by his skill in a variety of little
arts highly estimated by the savages. In particular, a friendship
existed between him and an old Indian called Naoman, who often came to
his house and partook of his hospitality. The Indians never forgive
injuries or forget benefits. The family consisted of Stacey, his wife,
and two children,—a boy and girl; the former five, the latter three
years old.”
The legend goes on to say that Naoman, in grateful friendship, gave the
wife of Stacey a secret warning that a massacre of the whites was
resolved on, exacting from her a solemn pledge of secrecy, and advising
instant escape across the river.
“The daily visits of old Naoman and his more than ordinary gravity had
excited suspicion in some of the tribe, who had accordingly paid
particular attention to the movements of Stacey. One of the young
Indians, who had kept on the watch, seeing the whole family about to
take their boat, ran to the little Indian village, about a mile off, and
gave the alarm. Five Indians collected, ran down to the river side where
their canoes were moored, jumped in and paddled after Stacey, who by
this time had got some distance out into the stream. They gained on him
so fast that twice he dropped his paddle and took up his gun. But his
wife prevented his shooting, by telling him that if he fired, and they
were afterwards overtaken, they would meet no mercy from the Indians. He
accordingly refrained, and plied his paddle till the sweat rolled in big
drops down his forehead. All would not do; they were overtaken within a
hundred yards of the shore, and carried back with shouts of yelling
triumph.
“When they got ashore, the Indians set fire to Stacey’s house, and
dragged himself, his wife, and children to their village. Here the
principal old men, and Naoman among the rest, assembled to deliberate on
the affair. The chief among them stated that some one of the tribe had
undoubtedly been guilty of treason in apprising Stacey the white man of
the designs of the tribe, whereby he took the alarm and had well nigh
escaped. He proposed to examine the prisoners as to who gave the
information. The old men assented to this, and Naoman among the rest.
Stacey was first interrogated by one of the old men who spoke English,
and interpreted to the others. Stacey refused to betray his informant.
His wife was then questioned, while at the same moment two Indians stood
threatening the two children with tomahawks in case she did not confess.
She attempted to evade the truth, by declaring she had a dream the night
before which had alarmed her, and that she had persuaded her husband to
fly. ‘The Great Spirit never deigns to talk in dreams to a white face,’
said the old Indian. ‘Woman! thou hast two tongues and two faces: speak
the truth, or thy children shall surely die.’ The little boy and girl
were then brought close to her, and the two savages stood over them,
ready to execute their bloody orders.
‘Wilt thou name,’ said the old Indian, ‘the red man who betrayed his
tribe? I will ask thee three times.’ The mother answered not. ‘Wilt thou
name the traitor? This is the second time.’ The poor mother looked at
her husband, and then at her children, and stole a glance at Naoman, who
sat smoking his pipe with invincible gravity. She wrung her hands and
wept, but remained silent. ‘Wilt thou name the traitor? ’Tis the third
and last time.’ The agony of the mother waxed more bitter; again she
sought the eye of Naoman, but it was cold and motionless. A pause of a
moment awaited her reply, and the next moment the tomahawks were raised
over the heads of the children, who besought their mother not to let
them be murdered.
“‘Stop!’ cried Naoman. All eyes were turned upon him. ‘Stop!’ repeated
he in a tone of authority. ‘White woman, thou hast kept thy word with me
to the last moment. I am the traitor. I have eaten of the salt, warmed
myself at the fire, shared the kindness of these Christian white people;
and it was I that told them of their danger. I am a withered, leafless,
branchless trunk; cut me down if you will. I am ready.’ A yell of
indignation sounded on all sides. Naoman descended from the little bank
where he sat, shrouded his face with his mantle of skins, and submitted
to his fate. He fell dead at the feet of the white woman by a blow of
the tomahawk.”
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