There is 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 favored 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, he had readily appreciated the
promptness and activity of the lad, and his business had been
dispatched as readily as circumstances permitted.
A boat sailing up the Hudson with some stores and goods for traffic,
was found, to carry 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
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 vigor. 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
vigor, 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 be in the direction
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 cry used by ploughmen and teamsters to their cattle, showed
him that someone 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 a lane in the
wood, as it would be called in England, appeared a heavy ox wagon
drawn by four 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 recognized in the horseman the good farmer who lived
some ten miles to the southwest of his father's house. The farmer was
a good-humored, 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 labor or his cunning with anyone who might be
in need.
On the present occasion, however, he was either sullen or stupid, and
it was indeed clear that 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
neighbor, and the farmer himself only paused for a moment or two to
answer Walter's questions.
"Why, Mr. Whittier," said the young gentleman, "you seem to be moving
with all your family."
"Ay, ay," answered the farmer, a look of dull cunning coming to his
face, "I don't like the look of things. I 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've got all my crops in safe."
As soon as these words were uttered he turned and rode after his
wagon, and Walter at once took the Indian trail which the other had
mentioned. About half a mile further on he for the first time
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 vapor 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 Mr. Prevost and Edith, 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 at once to break through the
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 pine wood, 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
toward 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, masses of brushwood and long
trailing vines, all glowing with intense heat. He felt that to proceed
in that direction was death. He could hardly draw his breath; his face
felt 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 that time he had lost the trail, and he 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 was too loud for any other sounds to be heard, but
the gestures of the figure seemed to direct him toward 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; but it was that of an Indian, and in
the smoky light Walter Prevost could not distinguish his 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 paleface?" said the Indian. "No; it stands
fast."
"Thank God for that!" said Walter Prevost, in English; but the words
had hardly passed his lips when he suddenly felt his arms seized from
behind, 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, and a 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 deerskin, and then,
raising him on his feet, forced him to retrace his steps along the
very trail which had brought him thither.