The waithman goode of Silverwoode,
That bowman stout and hende,
In donjon gloom abides his doom--
God dele him gentil ende.
It breaks true herte to see him stert,
When as the small birds sing,
And then to hear his sighynges drere,
Whereas his fetters ring.
OLD BALLAD.
In order to secure the person of the Knight of the Golden Melice,
several small parties were dispatched to scour the forest--another
object being to protect the remoter colonists against wandering
Taranteens, should any have the temerity to venture near the
settlement. A reward was offered to the Indians for the apprehension
of Sir Christopher--strict injunctions being given that he should be
taken alive. An increased vigilance also was exercised over the rude
prison wherein the captives were confined--a soldier being kept
constantly on guard before its entrance.
On the plot in front the sentry was pacing his round on a night which
was dark and threatening. No rain had fallen, but the clouds were
constantly becoming denser, and it was plain that a storm might soon
be expected. With the wind rose also the voice of the ocean, murmuring
along the curving shores of the bay, distinctly heard in the silence
of the night by the solitary soldier, whose thoughts it carried back
to the sea-beaten island he had left.
"An' my guns deceive me not," he said to himself, "it should be past
midnight. There is no moon, nor star, to be sure, to tell by, but I
have mounted guard before, and my feelings let me know as surely as a
dial what's the hour. Hark! (as a measured step was heard approaching)
that must be Cowlson. Stand," he cried, "and give the countersign!"
"Poh! Job Bloyce," answered a voice. "You know my croak as well as
your own; but babes and sucklings must be taught, and it is regular,
so I will let you know lest you may have forgotten--the sling of
David."
"Always full of thy nonsense," said Bloyce. "But what made thee so
late?"
"Late is it? It can be but a matter of ten minutes past twelve, and it
takes a little while to rub one's eyes and get them open after being
called. Hast seen or heard anything on thy watch?"
"Nothing. I had better have been in my warm bed and asleep,
considering the hoeing I must give my corn-field to-morrow, than be
watching a skeary Indian and a woman."
"Thou hast little need to trouble thy gizzard on that score," returned
Cowlson; "for, an' I mistake not greatly, the rain will fall heavy
enough to spoil thy chance at hoeing. It is blacker than the darkness
in Egypt. I cannot see the tip of thy nose."
"That is of no consequence. My nose is a white nose and no Indian's,
and I take it that it is for the copper skins you are to watch."
"And they will be still harder to be seen. But I care not. I am good
for ten Indians any day, though I expect not that they will venture to
sneak into our streets, be it light or dark."
"Nevertheless, keep your eyes open, for thou mayest need them; so good
night."
"Good night, and shut thine own, so soon as Dame Bloyce will permit
thee."
The two knew not, so dark was the night, that a third person stood so
near to them that he had overheard the whole of their dialogue. Soon
after the departure of the first sentinel, his successor, Cowlson,
seemed to consider it of very little importance to make his rounds
with much diligence, and to be more intent on protecting himself from
the rain, which began to fall, than to perform his duty. He,
therefore, after a few turns, ensconced himself as comfortably as
possible on the lee side of the building during the violence of the
storm, taking advantage of occasional intermissions to resume his
walk. The stranger waited until the little vigilance of the sentinel
was relaxed, and, noting exactly the place where he had bestowed
himself, stole noiselessly back to a group of three or four persons.
Here a whispered conversation was carried on until the rain began to
pour more violently, when, as if they thought it a favorable moment
for their enterprise, the whole party began to move forward in Indian
file--that is to say, following one another in a line--led by the man
who had overheard the conversation of the soldiers. Such was the noise
made by the falling drops, and so dark the night, that they had
approached close to the sentry before he became aware of any one's
presence. An accidental slipping of one of the men betrayed them, and,
presenting his piece, he demanded the countersign.
"The sling of David," was the reply, and the sentry dropped the breech
of the musket on the earth. He had hardly done so before he was
violently seized. A strong hand grasped his throat; another was
applied to his mouth; his piece was wrested from him, and, disarmed
and unable to utter a cry, he was hurled to the ground. His hands and
feet were then bound; a gag inserted into his mouth; his coat taken
off and muffled around his head to stifle the least sound, and he was
then removed to a little distance behind the building, and one left to
guard him and give notice of any approach. The rest of the party next
proceeded to the door of the cabin occupied by the jailer Bars. A
light was burning inside, but it was impossible, through the oiled
paper, to see anything within. He who appeared to be the leader,
having disposed his men on each side of the door, rapped upon it. No
answer was returned, and it was not until after repeated rappings, and
the patience of the strangers was becoming exhausted, and they had
begun to consult respecting bursting open the door, when some one was
heard moving and growling at the disturbance of his slumbers.
"Who is there?" he demanded, impatiently.
A low voice from the outside now entreated to be let in, for a moment,
out of the rain.
"Nay," returned Bars. "You put no foot into my house, at this time of
night, without the countersign."
"The sling of David," replied the voice.
"All right," said Bars, beginning to unbar the door, "But what do
you"--
He was unable to finish the sentence, for, as soon as the door turned
on its hinges, a rush was made by those on the outside, and poor Bars,
half clothed, rudely upset on the floor. "Murder," he undertook to
cry, but his throat was choked whenever he attempted to make a sound,
and he was soon disposed of in like manner as the sentinel, and thrust
into a corner, after having discovered that his assailants were
Indians. All this, with however little noise accomplished, could not
be done without disturbing Dame Bars, who, from the closet where she
slept, inquired what was the matter. One of the party thereupon
gliding over the floor with moccasoned feet, presented himself with
finger on lip before her. Terror benumbed the tongue of the poor woman
at the sight, and the cry she strove to utter died in her throat. By
smiles and gestures the Indian endeavored to satisfy her that no
injury was designed, and then, as if to confirm his peaceable
intentions, retired, drawing the door after him; and frightened,
though in some slight degree re-assured, the dame employed the respite
in clothing herself in her day-apparel.
Meanwhile, one of the Indians, who had found two or three large keys
tied together, had taken them from the peg where they hung and
proceeded to the prison. His actions evinced a strange familiarity
with the place. He advanced straight to the prison door, and, fitting
the key, presently stood in the narrow passage which ran round the two
cells into which the central part was divided. Only one of these was
locked. Opening it, he called, in a low tone--"Sassacus."
"Who wants Sassacus?" asked the chief in his own language out of the
darkness, for the stranger had come without a light.
"I do not understand your gibberish," answered the other. "Know you
not Philip's voice?"
"Thou hast come to place the feet of Sassacus on the forest leaves.
Quick! O good white man! and free him," cried the impatient chief.
Philip, guided by the sounds, bent down, and feeling for the shackles
which confined the legs of the captive, soon unfastened them, and the
liberated Sagamore stretched out with delight his cramped limbs.
"Sassacus," he said, "shall see again the pleasant river of the
Pequots, and he will deliver Neebin from the robbers." Then following
Joy, the two entered, noiselessly, the cabin of the jailer.
During the absence of Joy, a scene of a different kind had been
passing. The Lady Geraldine, aroused by the sounds, had left her
couch, and appeared among the intruders. She manifested no fear at
sight of the Indians, (for what had she to dread from those who had
always shown her kindness?) and when owe of them glided to her side,
she strove not to avoid him.
"Celestina!" said a well-known voice in her ear, "hasten to accompany
me from this wretched den, and the tyranny of your oppressors."
She started at the first sound, but quickly recovering herself,
replied, in a tone as low:
"Of what avail? My usefulness here is ended. I will give place to
another, and Heaven will employ me somewhere else."
"Be it so," said the Knight; "yet fly, for the sake of thy liberty,
perhaps of thy life."
"I fear not for my life," she added; "and as for my liberty, I cannot
long be deprived of it."
"Time flies! What madness is this? I have risked my life to rescue
thee, and now dost thou reject my service?"
"I cannot fly with thee. Better to die."
"What strange language do I hear? What mean you? Explain quickly, for
our time is short."
"I have no explanation, except that I will not go. The heretics may
rage, but the virgin will protect me."
"O, listen!" urged the Knight. "You shall be delivered from this
atrocious persecution. I will take thee to the French settlements,
where thou wilt be secure, and mistress of thine own movements."
"And thereby seem to admit the truth of all wherewith we are charged.
That were in some sort a betrayal of our trust, and what neither thou
nor I may do."
"Call you the preservation of our liberty and lives a betrayal of
trust? Celestina, grief hath crazed thy brain."
"Nay, Sir Christopher, I have thought over all these things, and the
virgin inspires my determination. I will do nought to confirm a
suspicion already entertained, that we are Catholics, which would be
turned into certainty, were we to take refuge among our French
neighbors. Thus should we make the task more difficult for the
successors who must take our places, since we have been found
unworthy."
"Then we will remain among the Indians, if that please thee better."
"To bring trouble upon them for their hospitality; to cause them to be
hunted on our account, like wild beasts. Thy generosity would disdain
safety purchased by another's suffering."
"We will go to some distant tribe. Anything is better than to remain
in the hands of these pitiless fanatics."
"I dread them not," answered Sister Celestina, loftily. "The talisman
of the true faith will preserve me."
"Is, then, thy resolution fixed beyond change? Will no prayers, no
entreaties change thee?"
"It is better thus: the poor Sister Celestina knows how to suffer and
to die, but not how to desert the post entrusted to her by her
superiors."
At this moment Joy and Sassacus entered, and the former, approaching
the Knight, informed him that all was ready for a start.
"I am ready," said the Knight. "Yet, once again, before I hasten away,
O, Celestina, come! I cannot bear to leave thee with these men with
natures rougher than the savage."
"If I were to tell thee all," she said, moved by his importunities,
"thou thyself wouldst bid me remain. Noble gentleman! unfortunate and
slandered Knight, save thyself from thine enemies. Hasten away; there
is danger in every moment's delay. Whatever may become of me, no fault
is thine."
She took his hand in hers, and as she pressed it to her lips, the
Knight felt a tear trickling over its surface.
"Farewell, then," he said, "since it must be so; but I will hover near
to assist thee, shouldst thou change thy resolution."
He turned away, greeted the Sagamore, and, with his followers, began
to leave the cabin. As he passed the jailer, he stooped, and, removing
the gag from his mouth, looked at him steadily an instant, and then
placed two broad gold pieces on the floor before him.
The lady pursued with her eyes the retreating figures till swallowed
up by the darkness. "I will bear my cross as I may," she said to
herself, "for I deserve it for all my unhappy suspicions of his
generous nature. But I will do nothing which may give further color to
the malignant charge devised by the justly-slain Spikeman, and taken
up by his associates. An escape with him were sure to do that. The
tongue of calumny would wag, and the finger of scorn be universally
pointed at me, and all would cry, 'aha! we said it.' Such triumph
shall not mine enemies have over me."
Her meditations were interrupted by Bars, who now begged her to
release him from bondage, or call his wife to do the friendly office
for him.
"I desire to take you to witness," said the lady, "that, though flight
was in my power, I have not availed myself of the opportunity. Say
that to my oppressors, to increase the guilt of their cruelty."
"I will say what you please," Answered Bars, peevishly, "an' you will
untie me."
"I will do so, if you promise to make no hue and cry."
"What should I want of tramping after Indians in the dark, and perhaps
catch an arrow in my paunch for my pains?" groaned the jailer; "though
I have some notions of my own about the Indian part of the business."
"Trusting thy promise, I will relieve thee from thy bonds," said the
lady, cutting the cords.
"I made no promise," said Bars, as soon as he was set at liberty,
"though I will behave as if I had. These be brave Indians," he said to
himself, slyly taking up the gold, "and pay handsomely for their right
to be considered such. An' it be thy pleasure that it should be so,"
he added aloud, "these golden Indians shall remain Indians till the
day of judgment, for all Bars--"
Dame Bars, now, from her nook, made her appearance on the scene.
"O, Sam!" she exclaimed, "be they gone, and have not they scalped
you?"
"You can look for yourself, wife," answered Sam, passing his fingers
through his shock of hair, as if to satisfy any doubts of his own.
"But what should they want with my scalp, I wonder."
"I am sure I can't tell what they do with such things," said the dame,
"unless to cover their own heads when they get bald."
"A pretty figure," grunted Bars, "my red crop would make on the top of
one of them salvages. It never will come to that, goody. But I must
not stay here talking about scalps, when, perhaps, the poor sentinel
may have lost his." And he started toward the door.
"O do not go, do not go, Sam!" said his wife, throwing her arms around
him; "they may be watching for thee on the outside."
"Women be always cowards," said the jailer; "but thou need not hug me
so tight now. I warrant, having got what they wanted, they are in the
woods before this time."
"Yet stay a little longer," persisted his wife. "If the poor soldier
be murdered, thou canst do him no good."
"You forget, goody, that I am a public officer, and must do my duty,"
said Sam, extricating himself from her grasp; and, lighting a lantern,
he went out of doors.
Bars directed his course straight to the door of the prison, which he
found open.
"It is as I expected," he thought, "There is no use in going in. The
Indian's long legs are loping far away in the forest, be sure.
Cowlson! friend Cowlson!" he asked, "art thou dead, or only scalped?"
He listened for an answer, but none was returned. Proceeding round the
little building, he soon found what he sought--the soldier, tied by
the neck and heels, in a most uncomfortable posture, and soaked with
the rain.
"Humph!" ejaculated Bars; "these salvages be learning civilization
fast. An' I had done it myself, I could not have tied the knot with
more judgment."
The soldier (to add to whose misfortunes, his musket was gone,
together with the powder and ball wherewith he had been furnished)
felt in no talking humor, and sulkily followed the jailer into the
house, where he recovered his speech, and recounted his portion of the
adventures of the night. Bars pretended to believe that the party
consisted entirely of Indians; of which, however, Cowlson could by no
means be persuaded; "for how," asked he, "could they learn our
countersign?"
"They be cunning vermin," said Bars. "But now, that I recollect,
methinks that when they deceived me it sounded a little heathenish."
"Then, why did you admit them?" demanded Cowlson.
"A fine question for you to ask, Jim Cowlson. An' I had not, the
chance is they would have bowled you off with them, as a hostage for
the sachem, and like as not burned us up besides. But the fact is, I
was half asleep. An' I had been wide awake, perhaps I would have
discovered the trick. And who would have guessed that Indians knew
anything about countersigns? I wonder how they found it out."
"I must report this night's work forthwith," said Cowlson, rising;
"but I had almost as lief have lost my scalp as my musket."
The disconsolate soldier accordingly wended on his way, to tell the
best story he could to save himself from blame; while Bars, after
relocking his empty prison, and barring his door, snuggled himself
alongside his partner to busy his rather obtuse brain with schemes of
a like nature on his own behalf.