CHAPTER XI.
On the morning after the events narrated in preceding chapter, General Hampton left his quarters at Four Corners for the new camp. Escorted by 20 cavalrymen, he and his staff rode rapidly over the newly-cut road, and by noon reached the Chateaugay. Halting on the bluff that overlooks the junction of the Outard with that river, and whence he had full view of the camp in busy preparation on the other side of the river, he awaited the arrival of his tents. A stout man and well-advanced in years, the exertion of the journey had fatigued him, and he sat, or rather reclined, on a log in front of a blazing fire, for the day was chilly, and grouped around him were the officers of his staff. At the foot of the bank and in the near distance, were the troopers tending their horses and the officers’ servants preparing dinner.
From his elevated position, the General had a full view of the opposite bank and he watched with complacency the arrival at the new camp, with flutter of flag and tuck of drum, of frequent detachments.
“Everything bodes favorably for our enterprise,” he remarked, “the despatches that awaited me tell of unprecedented success. At every point attempted our battalions have entered the enemy’s territory unopposed and advanced unmolested. The Rubicon has been crossed and terror-stricken the foe flies before us. This afternoon a special messenger shall bear to Albany, New York and Washington the tidings of our triumphant progress—of our undisputed taking possession of this country to which the British authorities make a pretended claim.”
“Your despatch will cause great rejoicing,” said an officer.
“Yes, it will be hailed with loud acclaim, and my enemies who clamored against me, will now perceive that what they stigmatized as inaction was the profoundest strategy. Sixteen miles have we marched into the enemy’s territory and not a hostile bayonet has been seen. Ha, who is this? Draw your swords.”
All eyes turned in the direction of the General’s, and a tall Indian was seen standing immovably beside a giant pine. It was Hemlock. As he remained motionless with folded arms, and was apparently unarmed, the officers got over their alarm, and those who had laid their hands upon their swords, dropped them.
“Sirrah, what do you here? How passed you our guards?” shouted the General.
“I have come to speak with you. You are ten to one; your escort is within hail of you, will you listen to me?”
“Go on,” said Hampton.
“You have a British officer held as prisoner. You wrote to Major Stovin that you would set him free if the Indian who killed Slocum were given in exchange. Do you stand by that offer?”
“Morton goes free when the Indian is sent in.”
“Give me an order for his release; the Indian goes to your camp at once.”
“That will not do, Mr Redskin. The exchange must be effected through the British commander. Let him send an accredited officer with a flag of truce and we will treat with him.”
“Before that can be done, Morton may be dead. If you get the Indian what care you for else? The Indian who killed Slocum passes into your hands the moment Morton is given liberty.”
“This is altogether irregular,” remarked an officer, “General Hampton cannot deal with an irresponsible redskin, who, for all he knows, has come here on some scheme of deviltry. See here, was it you that murdered Slocum?”
“I never murdered any man,” answered Hemlock proudly, “but I have killed many in war. Had you the Indian who slew him, what would you do to him?”
“Well, I guess, if the General let us have our way, we would hand him to the men of Slocum’s old regiment and they’d make him wish he had never been born.”
“The Indian might have had good cause for dealing with Slocum as he did?”
“No, you red devil, he could have no cause. He carved him up out of pure deviltry.”
“You are tired, General,” said Hemlock, with a courteous wave of the hand, “and while you rest, will you listen to me, for I have heard that Indian’s story? In the Mohawk valley lived an English family when you Americans rose against King George. A neighbor, who had come from Massachusetts, envied their farm, and, on the Englishman refusing to forswear his allegiance, had it confiscated and took possession. The Englishman had to fly and went through the woods, many days’ journey to Canada, guided by a band of loyal Oneidas. When they reached Canada, a young warrior of that band stayed with them and helped them to find food in the wilderness until crops grew. That Indian gave up his tribe, and lived with them and a daughter came to love him, and they were married and were happy many years, until the mist rose from the lake and she sickened and died. The Indian so loved her that he would have killed himself to follow her to the spirit land, had she not left a daughter, who was his joy and life. When she grew up, the Indian said, She shall be the equal of the best, and he took her to Albany to be taught all ladies learn. A young man saw her, met her, learned of the Indian blood in her veins, and doomed her as his spoil. He was aided by a companion in deceiving her by a false marriage, she lived with him for a while, was cast off, and her deceiver married the governor’s daughter. The Indian had gone on a far journey; he went to seek for furs in the West to get money for his daughter. In two years he came to Montreal with many canoe-loads, he sold them, he went to Albany, and found his child dying of a broken heart. He took her away with him, he nursed her by the Ottawa—he buried her there. He went back to Albany, and was told the law could not punish Slocum or his friend, who had gone away. Then he sought Slocum and twenty times he could have killed him, but he would not. In his heart he said, Slocum must die not by the knife or bullet, but by torture, and the chance came not until a moon ago, when he met Slocum face to face in the Chateaugay woods about to stab Morton. The Indian took Slocum, and for hours he made him feel part of the pain he had caused him and his child—only a part, for you who are fathers can guess what that Indian and his daughter suffered. Was that Indian to blame? Did he do more to him than he deserved? Will you give the father over to Slocum’s soldiers to be abused and killed?”
“A good yarn,” remarked an officer, “and a true one, for I lived at Albany then and saw the girl; pretty as a picture and simple as a baby. If Major Slocum had not got his hand in first, some other fellow would and she would have been made a fool of anyway.”
“We will have nigger fathers running after us next,” sneered another officer.
“Did you know Slocum?” asked Hemlock of the first who had spoken, with a quaver in his voice he could not control.
“Guess I did. Slocum and Spooner were chums in those days, and by ——, I believe you are the father of the young squaw you make such a bother about. Won’t we hold him, General?” So saying he rose, as if waiting his assent to seize Hemlock. Before he could take a second step, Hemlock, with a quick motion, snatched his tomahawk, which he had concealed in his bosom, threw it, and leapt into the bush, where he was lost to sight in a moment. The officer, without uttering a word, fell on his back; the head of the tomahawk buried in his forehead. Stunned by the event, the officers lost a few minutes in giving the alarm. When search was made, it was in vain; Hemlock had not left a trace behind him.
* * * * *
The evening set in dismal and rainy, with a raw east wind that made the soldiers seek every available shelter. In the Forsyth household there was the alarm natural to the knowledge that the invaders were within a short distance, but the daily routine of duty was not interrupted and everything had gone on as usual. All had retired to rest except Maggie, who sat before the fire, building castles in the flickering flames and dying embers. While so engaged, the door, never fastened, opened softly, and Hemlock stepped in. Regardless of his sodden garments, he crouched beside the girl, without uttering a word. “Do you bring news of the coming of the enemy?” she whispered.
“No: they are shivering in their tents.”
“It is a cruel night to be out of doors.”
The Indian nodded assent, and relapsed into silence. “Maggie,” he said suddenly, “I may have to leave Morton to your care.”
“Dear me, Hemlock, what can I do?”
“I have done everything,” he went on to say, “that I could. I gave him a chance to escape from his prison and today I offered Hampton to surrender the Indian they want in exchange for him and he refused. He will treat with the British General alone.”
“That is surely easy, Hemlock. When the Yankees say they will give up Mr Morton for the Indian they blame for murdering their officer, our General will be glad to give up the Indian, provided he can be got.”
“No: our General refuses, saying it would be an unheard of thing for the British to give up an ally for an act of warfare, and he will not listen to the Yankee demand.”
“May be he says that because he cannot get the Indian,” suggested Maggie.
“I am the Indian,” said Hemlock curtly, “and I asked him to bind me and send me to the American camp with a flag of truce, and all he said was, ‘He would sooner hear of Morton being hung than be guilty of such treachery to a faithful ally.’”
“My, Hemlock! What made you be so cruel? That you have a feeling heart I know, for I have seen you cry over your daughter’s——”
With a quick gesture Hemlock stopped her.
“Speak no more of that. It was because of my love for my child that I tortured the wretch to death.” Here he paused, his features working with emotions that cast them into frightful contortions. “Oh, Maggie, I thought if I could have my revenge I’d be happy. I had my heart’s wish on the spoiler of my child and today I brained the villain that helped him, and I am more miserable than ever. My vengeance has done me no good. My child, my daughter, oh come to me!”
The heart of Maggie melted with sympathy. She rose and resting one hand on his shoulder sought his with the other. “Take it not,” he said in a whisper, “it is the hand of blood.”
“Hemlock, I dinna judge you as I would ane o’ oor ain folk, for the nature born with you is no like oors, let alane your upbringing, but I ken you to be an honest, and wronged man, with a kindly heart, and I would share your sorrow that I may lichten it.”
The Indian was evidently touched. Grasping her hand he bent over it and pressed it to his lips. After a long pause, Maggie added: “If you would give up your heathen ways and turn to the Lord, your path would become clear.”
“I once followed the Lord,” said Hemlock, “I learned of Him from my wife, and I taught my daughter to love Jesus, but when the cloud came and its darkness blinded me, I put away the white man’s God and went back to the ways of my fathers.”
“Leave them again?” entreated Maggie.
“Too late: I die as I am.”
“But you are no going to die, Hemlock. You’ve many years to live.”
“I die before the new moon comes; my oki told me so in a dream last night, and that is why I have come to talk with you about Morton. You love him?”
Too honest to utter the “no” that came to her faltering tongue, Maggie’s head drooped and her face flushed.
“I know you do,” Hemlock went on, “and I know he loves you, tho’ his heart has not told his head yet. I know not where he is; if I did, we would attack his guard and rescue him this night. They took him away from Fort Hickory and I have not got his track yet. When they find where he is I want you to give orders to my men when I am gone.”
“This is beyond me, Hemlock.”
“Listen: I have told my Indians they must save him and to obey you.”
“Tell my brothers or my father.”
“The Indians would not obey them: they believe what I told them, that I have given you my medicine. If Morton is not saved this week, he dies.”
“If our men beat the Yankees will they not rescue him?”
“Yankees would shoot him before they would let him escape, and they will hang him if they retreat. They have let him live hoping to get me; when they know they cannot, they will kill him.”
Maggie shuddered. “And what am I to do?”
Hemlock answered: “The Indian has a good hand but a poor head. When they come and tell you they have found where Morton is kept, you will order them when and how to make the attack and into the messenger’s hand you will press this medicine, and tell him it will make success sure.” Here he took a pouch from his breast and selected a small package—something sewed up in a bit of bird’s skin.
“I hope you will live to save your friend yourself,” said Maggie.
Hemlock gloomily shook his head, and rising walked towards the door, which he opened and stepped out into the cheerless night. Maggie followed and looked out. She could see nothing: he was gone. That night she rested all the more comfortably, from knowing that within hail was a faithful band of Indians.