Ticonderoga: A Story of Early Frontier Life in the Mohawk Valley

by G. P. R. James

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.