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A HERO OF TICONDEROGA
By
Rowland E. Robinson
Burlington, VT.
Hobart J. Shanley & Co.
Publishers
1898
Copyright, 1898, by
HOBART J. SHANLEY & CO.
Contents
- CHAPTER I--COMING INTO THE WILDERNESS
- CHAPTER II--THE NEW HOME
- CHAPTER III--A VISIT TO THE FORT
- CHAPTER IV--THE NEW HAMPSHIRE GRANTS
- CHAPTER V--THE EVERGREEN SPRIG
- CHAPTER VI--THE YORKERS
- CHAPTER VII--THE "JUDGMENT SEAT"
- CHAPTER VIII--A NOVEL BEAR TRAP
- CHAPTER IX--A FRONTIER TRAGEDY
- CHAPTER X--REBELLION
- CHAPTER XI--ESCAPE
- CHAPTER XII--A FREE LIFE
- CHAPTER XIII--FOREBODINGS OF STORM
- CHAPTER XIV--GABRIEL'S GOOD SERVICE
- CHAPTER XV--LEADERS AND GUIDE
- CHAPTER XVI--TICONDEROGA
- CHAPTER XVII--HOME COMING
CHAPTER I--COMING INTO THE WILDERNESS
The low sun of a half-spent winter afternoon streaked and splashed the
soft undulations of the forest floor with thin, infrequent lines, and
scattered blotches of yellow light among the thickening shadows.
A solitary hunter, clad in buckskin and gray homespun, thridded his way
among the gray trunks of the giant trees, now blended with them and
their shadows, now briefly touched by a glint of sunlight, now casting
up the powdery snow from the toes of his snowshoes in a pearly mist, now
in a golden shower, yet moving as silently as the trees stood, or
shadows brooded, or sunlight gleamed athwart them.
Presently he approached a narrow road that tunnelled, rather than
seamed, the forest, for the giant trees which closely pillared its sides
spread their branches across it, leaving the vast forest arch unbroken.
In the silence of the hour and season, which was but emphasized by the
outcry of a suspicious jay and the gentler notes of a bevy of friendly
chickadees, the alert ear of the hunter caught a less familiar sound.
Faint and distant as it was, he at once recognized in it the slow tread
of oxen and the creak of runners in the dry snow, and, standing a little
aloof from the untrodden road, he awaited the coming of the possibly
unwelcome invaders of the wilderness.
A yoke of oxen soon appeared, swaying along at a sober pace, the breath
jetting from their nostrils in little clouds that arose and dissolved in
the still air with that of their driver, who stood on the front of a
sled laden with a full cargo of household stuff. Far behind the sled
stretched the double furrow of the runners, deep-scored lines of darker
blue than the universal shadow of the forest, a steadfast wake to mark
the course of the voyager till the next snow-storm or the spring thaw
cover it or blot it out. As the oxen came opposite the motionless
hunter, his attendant jay uttered a sudden discordant cry.
"Whoa, hush! Whoa haw, there! What are you afeard of now? That's nothin'
but a jay squallin'." The strong voice of the driver rang through the
stillness of the woods, overbearing the monotonous tread of the oxen,
the creak of the sled, and the responsive swish and creak of the snow
beneath feet and runners.
Unmindful of his voice, the oxen still swerved from the unbeaten track
of the forest road and threatened to bring the off runner against one of
the great trees that bordered it. The driver sprang from his standing
place, and, running forward alongside the cattle, quickly brought them
to a halt with a few reassuring words, and a touch of his long,
blue-beech gad across their faces.
Looking into the woods to see what had alarmed them, he became aware of
the man standing a little way off, as motionless as the great tree
trunks around him. Seeing the oxen were now under control, the latter
advanced a little and spoke in a low, pleasant voice:
"I didn't go to skeer your oxen, stranger, and was standin' still to let
'em pass, but thet jay squalled at me, an', lookin' this way, I s'pose
they ketched a glimpse of my fur cap an' took it for some varmint.
Cattle is always lookin' for some sech, in the woods. Your load's all
right, I hope," he said, coming into the road and looking at the sled,
which, though tipped on some hidden obstruction, was yet in no danger of
upsetting its freight.
"Why, you've got women an' childern," and his face lighted up with an
expression of pleased interest. "You're comin' in to make a pitch. How
far might you be goin', stranger?"
"A little beyond Fort Ti, on this side," the driver of the oxen
answered. "I made a pitch there last year. My name's Seth Beeman, and I
come from Salisbury, Connecticut, and them on the sled are my wife and
children." Seth Beeman knew that, according to the custom of the country
and the times, this information would presently be required of him, and
the hunter, for such the stranger's dress, long gun and snowshoes
proclaimed him to be, had such an honest face he did not hesitate to
forestall the inevitable questions.
"I want to know! A Beeman from ol' Salisbury," cried the other. "An' now
I wonder if you be akin to my ol' comrade in the Rangers, 'Zekiel
Beeman?"
"My father's name was Ezekiel, and he served in Roger's Rangers."
"Give me your hand, friend," cried the hunter, drawing off his mitten
with his teeth, and extending his hand as he came near to the other.
"Well, I never thought to meet an ol' friend here in these lonesome
woods, to-day. Yes, an ol' friend, for that's what a son of 'Zekiel
Beeman's is to me, though I never sot eyes on him afore. You've maybe
hearn him speak of Job Carpenter? That's my name."
"Carpenter? Yes, the name sounds familiar, but you know father wa'n't a
man of many words and never told us much of his sojerin' days."
"You're right, he wa'n't. We all larnt to keep our heads shut when we
was a-scoutin' an' a loud word might cost a man his'n an' many another
life."
Seth wondered how long since the hunter had forgotten the lesson, yet he
noticed the voice of the other was never high pitched and he never made
a sudden, abrupt movement.
"An' so these is your wife an' childern, be they?" said Job, passing
toward the sled, whose occupants were so muffled in bed-quilts and
blankets that nothing of their forms, and but little of their features,
were visible.
"How dedo, marm. How dedo, little uns. Tol'able comf'table, I hope?"
Ruth Beeman answered his kind salutation as audibly as she could out of
her mufflings, and the children, a boy of twelve and a girl of three
years younger, stared at him with round, wondering eyes.
"It's a hard life that lies afore women an' children in this
wilderness," he said to himself, and then, in a louder tone: "Wal, I'm
glad you're goin' to be nigh the Fort. There's always a doctor there,
an' it's sort o' protection, if the garrison be reg'lars. Now, Seth,
start up your team, an' I'll boost on the sled till it's square on the
road again."
So saying, he set his shoulder to one of the sled stakes, while Seth
carefully started the oxen forward. With a heaving lurch and prolonged
creak, the sled settled upon evener ground without disturbance of its
passengers or its burden of house gear and provisions, which, till now,
had hidden from view of the hunter a gentle little cow in lead close
behind it.
"How far be we from the Fort?" Seth asked.
"Nigh onto five mile," the hunter answered, after considering their
whereabouts a moment. "After a spell you'll come to a better road on the
ice of the crik, if you take the first blazed path beyend here, to your
left. It'll fetch you to my cabin, where you'd better stop till morning,
for you can't no ways git to your pitch till long arter nightfall. I
know where it is, for I come across it, last fall, when I was trappin'
mushrat up the crik. My shanty's the first thing in the shape of a
dwelling that you'll come to, an' can't miss it if you foller the back
track of my snowshoes. It hain't so great, but it's better'n no shelter,
an' you're more'n welcome to it. Rake open the fire an' build you a
rouster, an' make yourselves to home. I've got some traps to tend to,
but I'll be back afore dark," and, almost before they could thank him,
he disappeared among the trees.
Seth took his place upon the sled, and, as it moved forward, the forest
again resumed its solemnity of silence, that was rather made more
apparent than at all disturbed by the slight sounds of the party's
progress. It was a silence that their lonely journey had long since
accustomed them to, but had not made less depressing, for, in every
waking moment, it reminded Seth and his wife how every foot of it
withdrew them further from old friends and old associations, and how
long and wearisome the days of its endurance stretched before them.
The remainder of the day was made pleasanter by the chance finding of a
friend in a strange land, and with a prospect of spending a night under
a roof, for, however it might be, it could but be better than the almost
shelterless bivouac that had many times been their night lodging since
they entered the great Northern Wilderness, that, within a few years,
had become known as the New Hampshire Grants.
More than once, when they had fallen asleep with only the mesh of netted
branches between them and the serene stars, they had been awakened by
the long howl of the wolves answering one another, or by the appalling
scream of a panther. Then, with frequent replenishment of the fire, they
had watched out the weary hours till morning, alarmed by every falling
brand or sough of the breeze, or resonant crack of frost-strained trees.
Seth looked eagerly for the promised trail and was glad to discover the
blazed trees and the netted imprint of snowshoes, that, if but briefly,
as certainly, identified the path. He turned his oxen into the diverging
road, which, though narrow, gave ample room for the sled. After a little
it led to the winding channel of a creek crawling through a marsh, whose
looped and matted sedges were in turn bordered by the primeval forest
and its bristling abatis of great trees, prostrate and bent in every
degree of incline.
At last, as the long shadows began to thicken into the pallid gloom of
winter twilight, a little cabin was discovered in a notch of clearing,
as gray and silent as the gray woods around it. A thin wisp of smoke
climbed from the low chimney against the wall of forest, and a waft of
its pungent odor came to the travellers. Even as they drew near, its
owner also arrived, and gave them hospitable welcome to his hearth, and
presently the little room was aglow with light and warmth.
Here Ruth and little Martha thawed away their cramps and chilliness by
the big fireplace, while Seth and his son Nathan, with the hunter's
help, unhitched the oxen from the sled. From this they brought the
rations of hay and corn, and made the oxen and their comrade, the cow,
contented with their roofless lodging behind the cabin.
Then the pork and Indian meal were taken inside. Ruth mixed a
johnny-cake with hot water and salt, and set it to bake on its board,
tilted before the fire. The frying-pan was filled with pork, and slices
of moose meat contributed from Job's larder.
The little party, ranged on rude seats about the fireplace, so great as
to be out of all proportion to the room, chatted of things near and
afar, while they grew hungry with every sniff of appetizing cookery.
Nathan was all agog at the peltry that hung from innumerable pegs on the
rough log walls. There were skins of many animals that had long been
rare, if not extinct, in the old colony where he was born.
There were the broad, round shields of beaver skins, the slenderer and
lighter-hued skins of otters, besides the similarly shaped but smaller
and darker-colored fisher, with a bundle of the lesser martins, that Job
called "saple," and no end of muskrats and minks. There were, also, half
a dozen wolf skins, and, conspicuous in size and glossy blackness, were
three bear skins, and beside them hung a tawny panther hide, the huge
hinder paws and long tail trailing on the puncheon floor, while the
cat-like head seemed to prowl, as stealthily as in life, among the upper
shadows and flickerings of the firelight.
Quickly noting the boy's interest in these trophies, Job made the round
of them all, explaining the habits of each animal, the method of its
capture, and giving brief narrations of encounters with the larger ones.
He exhibited, with the most pride, a beautiful silver-gray foxskin, and
an odd-looking spotted and coarse-haired skin, stuffed with moss into
some semblance of its form in the flesh. This he brought to the
fireside, and set on its fin-like hinder feet, for the inspection of his
guests.
"What on airth is it?" Seth Beeman asked.
"'Tain't of the airth, but of the water," Job answered, with a chuckle.
"I killed it on the ice of the lake airly in the winter. One of the
sojers at the Fort see it, an' he says it's a seal fish belongin' to the
sea, where he's seen no end on 'em. But them sojers to the Fort is an
ign'ant set like all the reg'lars, that we rangers always despised as
bad as they did us, an' it don't look no ways reasonable that sech a
creatur' could come all the way up the St. Lawrence, an' the Iriquois
River, an' most the len'th o' this lake. My idee is, it's a fresh-water
maremaid, an' nat'ral to this lake."
If Seth had any doubt of this theory, he gave it no expression, and the
hunter went on:
"An ol' Injin told me that there's always ben one o' these cretur's seen
in this lake a spell afore every war that's ever ben. But I hope the
sign'll fail this time. I've seen enough o' war an' I don't see no
chance of another, all Canady bein' took an' the Injins in these parts
bein' quilled."
The johnny-cake, having been baking for some time in its last turn on
the board, was now pronounced done. The mixed contents of the frying-pan
were turned out on a wooden trencher, and conversation was suspended for
the more important matter of supper. Not long after this was disposed
of, the host and his guests betook themselves to sleep in quilts and
blankets on the puncheon floor, with their feet to the blazing backlog
and glowing bed of coals.