We must go back for a very short time to the spot whence Edith and her
Oneida captors set out upon what proved to the latter an unfortunate
voyage across Lake Champlain, and to the very moment after their canoe
had left the shore. The Long House, as the Five Nations were pleased
to call their territory, extended from the great lakes and a point far
west, to the banks of the Hudson and Lakes Huron and Champlain; but,
as is always the case in border countries, the frontier was often
crossed, both by wandering or predatory bands of Hurons and other
nations under the sway of France, and by outlaws from the Iroquois
tribes attached to England. The peculiar habits and laws of the Indian
tribes rendered the incorporation of fugitives with other nations a
very easy matter, although the language of the Five Nations would seem
to be radically different from that of the tribes originally
inhabiting the seaboard of America. Indeed, on the western shore of
Lake Champlain not a few pure Hurons were to be found; for that tribe,
during the successful campaigns of France against England, with which
what is called the French and Indian war commenced, had somewhat
encroached upon the Iroquois territory, supported in their daring by
the redoubted name of Montcalm.
With some of these, it would seem, Apukwa and his companions had
entered into a sort of tacit alliance, and toward their dwellings they
had directed their steps after their attack upon Edith and her little
escort, in the expectation of readily finding a canoe to waft them
over the lake. At first they had been disappointed, for the barks
which had been there the day before were gone; and when they did find
the canoe in which they ultimately commenced their voyage, the
avaricious old man to whom it belonged would not let them use it
without a world of bargaining; and it cost them a considerable portion
of the little stock of ornaments and trinkets which they had found in
Edith's plundered baggage, before the Huron consented to lend them
that which they did not dare take by force.
Thus more than an hour was passed, after they reached the lake shore,
before they departed; and their taking their course so boldly across
the bows of the French boats was more a matter of necessity than
choice, although they little doubted a good reception from the
inveterate enemies of England. No sooner, however, had the canoe shot
out into the water than the figure of a tall, dark woman emerged from
the bushes of the low point under which the skiff had lain, and she
began wringing her hands with every appearance of grief and anxiety.
"O, what will poor massa do!" she cried, in a piteous voice. "What
will poor massa do! Him son killed, him daughter stolen, and Chaudo
tomahawked! Ah, me! ah, me! What will we all do?"
Her imprudent burst of grief had nearly proved destructive to poor
Sister Bab. The old Huron had turned him quietly toward a small birch
bark cabin in the forest hard by, and would never have remarked the
poor negress if she had confined the expression of her cares to mere
gesture; but her moans and exclamations caught the quick ear of the
savage, and he turned and saw her plainly, gazing after the canoe.
With no other provocation than a taste for blood, he stole quietly
through the trees, with the soft, gliding, noiseless motion peculiar
to his race, and making a circuit so as to conceal his advance, he
came behind the poor creature just as she beheld the canoe which bore
away her young mistress stopped and surrounded by the little flotilla
of the French. Another moment would have been fatal to her, for the
Indian was within three yards, when a large rattlesnake suddenly
raised itself in his path and made him recoil a step. Whether
attracted by the small, but never-to-be-forgotten sound of the
reptile's warning, or some noise made by the Huron in suddenly drawing
back, the poor negress turned her head and saw her danger.
With a wild scream she darted away toward the lake, The savage sprang
after her with a yell, and though old he retained much of the Indian
lightness of foot. Onward toward the shore he drove her, meditating
each moment to throw his hatchet if she turned to the right or left.
But Sister Bab was possessed of qualities which would not have
disgraced any of his own tribe, and even while running at her utmost
speed she contrived continually to deprive him of his aim. Not a tree,
not a shrub, not a mass of stone that did not afford her a momentary
shelter, and of every inequality of the ground she took advantage. Now
she whirled sharply round the little shoulder of the hill; now, as the
tomahawk was just balanced to be thrown with more fatal certainty, she
sprang down a bank which almost made the Indian pause. Then she
plunged head foremost, like a snake, through the thick brushwood, and
again appeared in a different spot from that where he had expected to
see her.
Still, however, he was driving her toward the lake, at a spot where
the shores were open, and where he felt certain of overtaking her. On
she went, however, to the very verge of the lake, gazed to the right
and left, and seeing with apparent consternation that the banks
rounded themselves on both sides, forming a little bay, near the
center of which she stood, she paused for a single instant, as if in
despair. The Huron sprang after with a wild whoop, clutching the
tomahawk firmly to strike the fatal blow.
But Sister Bab was not yet in his grasp, and with a bold leap she
sprang from the ledge into the water. Her whole form instantly
disappeared, and for at least a minute her savage pursuer stood gazing
at the lake in surprise and disappointment, when suddenly he saw a
black object appear at the distance of twenty or thirty yards, and
suddenly sink again. A few moments after it rose once more, still
farther out, and then the brave woman was seen striking easily away
toward the south.
Rendered only more eager by the chase, and more fierce by
disappointment, the Huron ran swiftly along the shore, thinking that
he could easily tire her out or cut her off; but, in sunny waters in
far distant lands, she had sported with the waves in infancy, and
taking the chord of the bow where he was compelled to take the arc,
she gained in distance what she lost in speed. So calm was she, so
cool, that turning her eyes from her pursuer, she gazed over the water
in the direction where she had seen her beloved young mistress
carried, and had the satisfaction of beholding the canoe towed along
by one of the French boats. Why she rejoiced she hardly knew, for her
notions on such matters were not very definite; but anything seemed
better than to remain in the hands of the murderers of poor Chaudo.
Her thoughts were still of Edith, and she asked herself: "Where are
they taking her to, I wonder. Perhaps I may come up with them if that
redskin would but leave off running along by the shore and let me land
and cross the narrow point. He may run the devil foot. He can't catch
Bab. I'll dive again. He think her drowned."
Her resolution was instantly executed; and whether it was that her
stratagem was successful, or that the Huron had less than Indian
perseverance and gave up the chase, when she rose again she saw him
turning toward the woods, as if about to go back to his lodge. But Bab
had learned caution, and she pursued her way toward the small
peninsula where stood the French fort of Crown Point, which at the
period I speak of had been nearly stripped of its garrison to
reinforce Ticonderoga. She chose her spot, however, with great care,
for though in her wanderings she had made herself well acquainted with
the country, she was, of course, ignorant of the late movements of the
troops, and fancied that the French posts extended as far beyond the
walls of the fortress as they had formerly done. A little woody
island, hardly separated from the mainland, covered her approach, and
the moment her feet touched the shore she darted away into the forest
and took the trail which led nearly due south. The neck of the point
was soon passed, and once more she caught sight of the French boats
still towing the canoe on which her thoughts so particularly rested.
The short detention of the French party, and the advantage she gained
by her direct course across the point, had put her a little in
advance, and she ran rapidly on till she reached the mouth of the
small river now called Putnam's Creek, which, being flooded by the
torrents of rain that had fallen in the earlier part of the day, made
her pause for a moment, gazing at the rushing and eddying waters
coming down, and doubting whether she had strength left to swim across
it. The boats, by this time, were somewhat in advance, and when she
gazed after them she naturally came to the conclusion that they were
bound for what she called, after the Indian fashion, Cheeonderoga.
Suddenly, however, as she watched, she saw their course altered, and
it soon became evident that they intended to land considerably north
of the fort. Running up the creek, then, till she found a place where
she could pass, she followed an Indian trail through the woods, lying
a little to the west of the present line of road, and at length
reached an eminence nearly opposite to Shoreham--a spur of Mount Hope,
in fact--when she once more caught a view of the lake, just in time to
see the disembarkation of the French troops and the Indians.
Notwithstanding her great strength, the poor negress was by this time
exceedingly tired; but still that persevering love which is one of the
brightest traits of her unfortunate race, carried her on. "If I can
catch sight of them again," she thought, "I can carry ole massa
tidings of where she is."
Encouraged by this idea, she pushed on without pause; but night
overtook her before she had seen any more of the party, and poor Bab's
spirit began to fail. More slowly she went, somewhat doubtful of her
way, and in the solitude, the darkness, and the intricacy of the
woods, fears began to creep over her which were not familiar to her
bosom. At length, however, she thought she heard voices at a distance,
and a minute or two after she found herself on the bank of a small
brook. She paused and listened. The voices were now more audible, and
without hesitation she crossed and crept cautiously along in the
direction from which the sounds came.
A moment or two after, the flickering of a fire through the trees
attracted her attention, and more and more carefully she crept on upon
her hands and knees, through the low brush, still seeing the blaze of
the firelight, when she raised her eyes, but unable to perceive the
spot whence it proceeded. A small pine, cut down, next met her hand as
she crept along, and then a number of loose branches tossed together;
and now Sister Bab began to get an inkling of the truth. "It must be
what dey call an ambush," she thought, and raising herself gently, she
found that she was close to a bank of earth over which the firelight
was streaming. The sounds of voices were now distinctly heard, but she
could not understand one word, for it seemed to her that they were
speaking in two different languages, if not more, but each of them was
strange to her.
At one time she fancied she heard Edith's voice, but still the
language spoken was a strange one, and although the bank of earth was
not more than shoulder high, she did not venture at first to rise to
her whole height in order to look over it. At length, however, came
some words of English, and the voice, which she judged to be Edith's,
was plainly heard, saying: "This gentleman is asking you, my good
friend, if you will not go and take some supper with him where the
people have spread a cloth yonder." Bab could resist no more, but
raised herself sufficiently to bring her eyes above the top of the
breastwork, and gazed over into the little rude redoubt.
On the right, and at the farther part of the enclosure, were a number
of Indians seated on the ground; and, besides the fire already
burning, several others were being piled up amidst the various groups
of natives. Somewhat on the left, and stretching well nigh across the
western side of the other space, were the French soldiers, in groups
of five or six, with their arms piled near them. Other straggling
parties were scattered over the ground, and two sentinels, with musket
on shoulder, appeared on the other side of the redoubt; but the group
which attracted the poor woman's chief attention was on her right,
near a spot where some small huts had been erected. It consisted of
three persons, a gaily dressed French officer, a man in the garb of a
soldier, but with his arms cast aside, and lastly, a short, powerful
man, in a yellowish-brown hunting shirt, whom Sister Bab at once
recognized as her old acquaintance the Woodchuck. That sight was quite
enough, and sinking down again amongst the bushes, she crept slowly
away to a little distance, and there lay down to meditate as to what
was next to be done.
At one time she was tempted to enter the French redoubt and remain
with her young mistress. Several considerations seemed in favor of
this course; and let it be no imputation upon poor Bab that hunger and
the savory odors which came wafted over the earthwork were not without
their influence. But then she thought: "If I do, how will ole Massa
ever know where Missy is?" and this remembrance enabled her to resist
the strong temptation. "I will stay here and rest till the moon get
up," thought the poor woman. "I know dey must be coming up de lake by
dis time, and I can catch dem before to-morrow."
To prevent herself from sleeping too long if slumber should overtake
her, she crept farther out of the thick wood and seated herself in a
more open spot, with her clasped hands over her knees, but with
nothing else to support her.
Various sorts of fears suggested themselves to her mind as she thus
sat; but oppressive weariness was more powerful than thought, and in a
few moments her head was nodding.
Often she woke up during the first hour, but then she slept more
profoundly, bending forward till her forehead touched her knees. It is
probable, too, that she dreamed, for in the course of the next two
hours several broken sentences issued from her lips in a low murmur.
At length, however, she woke with a start, and found the moon
silvering the whole sky to the eastward, where some bold heights
towered up, still obscuring the face of the orb of night. She sat and
gazed somewhat bewildered, hardly knowing where she was. But the
musical voice of the falling waters, which have gained for the outlet
of Lake Horicon an ever enduring name, and the grand outline of Mount
Defiance seen through the trees, soon showed her that she was on that
narrow point of land lying between Front Brook and the falls.
She waited till the moon had fully risen, and then stole quietly away
again, keeping a southwestern course nearly up the current of the
brook, and for three hours she pursued her way with a rapid and
untiring foot. She had no idea of the time, and wondered if the day
would never break. But the moonlight was beautifully clear, and the
calm beams, as if they had some affinity with the woodland solitude,
seemed to penetrate through the branches and green leaves even more
easily than can the sunshine. Her fears had now nearly passed away,
for she knew that she must be far beyond the French and Huron posts,
and could only expect to meet with the scouts and outposts of the
English army, or with parties of friendly Indians, and she
consequently went on without care or precaution. Suddenly she found
herself emerging from the wood into one of those low, open savannas,
of which I have already spoken, close to the spot where the embers of
a fire were till glowing. The grass was soft and her tread was light,
but the sleep of the Indian is lighter still, and in an instant three
or four warriors started up around her.
"I am a friend! I am a friend!" cried the negress in the Iroquois
tongue. "Who be you--Mohawks?"
"Children of the Stone," replied the man nearest to her, gazing at her
earnestly by the moonlight. "I have seen the Dark Cloud before, but
does she not dwell in the house of our brother Prevost?"
"Yes, yes!" cried Sister Bab, eagerly. "I'm his slave girl, Bab, who
came to the Oneida Castle with my own Missy. But now she is the
prisoner of bad men, and I have escaped, tired and hungry, and am
nearly dead!"
"Come with me," said the Indian. "I will take thee where thou shalt
have rest to comfort thee and meat to support thee, till the Black
Eagle come. He will not be long, for he will keep the warpath night
and day till he is here, and his wings are swift."
The poor woman shuddered at the name of the terrible chief, for it was
closely connected in her mind with the circumstances of her young
master's fate; but wearied and exhausted, the prospect of food and
repose was a blessing, and she followed the Indian in silence to the
other side of the savanna.