"Nonsense, Sambo—don't you see we are only jesting with you?" said the youth, in the kindest tone—for he perceived that the faithful creature was striving hard to check the rising tear—"there is not an officer here who does not respect you for your long attachment to my family, and none would willingly give you pain; neither should you suppose they would say anything offensive in regard of my brother Gerald."
Pacified by this assurance, which was moreover corroborated by several of his companions, really annoyed at having pained the old man, Sambo sank once more into respectful silence, still however continuing to occupy the same spot. During this colloquy the cry had been several times repeated, and as often replied to from the shore; and now a canoe was distinctly visible, urging its way to the beach. The warriors it contained were a scouting party, six in number—four paddling the light bark, and one at the helm, while the sixth, who appeared to be the leader, stood upright in the bow, waving from the long pole, to which it was attached, a human scalp. A few minutes and the whole had landed, and were encircled on the bank by their eager and inquiring comrades. Their story was soon told. They had encountered two Americans at some distance on the opposite shore, who were evidently making the best of their way through the forest to Detroit. They called upon them to deliver themselves up, but the only answer was an attempt at flight. The Indians fired, and one fell dead, pierced by many balls. The other, however, who happened to be considerably in advance, threw all his energy into his muscular frame; and being untouched by the discharge that had slain his companion, succeeded in gaining a dense underwood, through which he finally effected his escape. The scouts continued their pursuit for upwards of an hour, but finding it fruitless, returned to the place where they had left their canoe, having first secured the scalp and spoils of the fallen man.
"Dam him, debbel," exclaimed Sambo, who, as well as the officers, had approached the party detailing their exploit, and had fixed his dark eye on the dangling trophy—"May I nebber see a hebben ib he not a calp of a younger Desborough. I know him lying tief by he hair—he all yaller like a soger's breastplate—curse him rascal (and his white and even teeth were exhibited in the grin that accompanied the remark,) he nebber more say he sail round Massa Geral's gun-boat, and Massa Geral and Sambo sleep."
"By Jove he is right," said De Courcy. "I recollect remarking the color of the fellow's hair yesterday, when, on calling for a glass of "gin sling," at the inn to which I had conducted him, he threw his slouched hat unceremoniously on the table, and rubbed the fingers of both hands through his carrotty locks, until they appeared to stand like those of the Gorgon, perfectly on end."
"And were there other proof wanting," said Villiers, "we have it here in the spoil his slayers are exhibiting to their companions. There is the identical powder horn, bullet pouch, and waist belt, which he wore when he landed on this very spot."
"And I," said Middlemore, "will swear by the crooked buckhorn handle of that huge knife or dagger; for in our struggle on the sands yesterday morning, his blanket coat came open, and discovered the weapon, on which I kept a sharp eye during the whole affair. Had he but managed to plant that monster (and he affected to shudder,) under my middle ribs, then would it have been all over with poor Middlemore."
"There cannot be a doubt," remarked Henry Grantham. "With Sambo and De Courcy, I well recollect the hair, and I also particularly noticed the handle of his dagger, which, as you perceive, has a remarkable twist in it."
All doubt was put to rest by Sambo, who, having spoken with its possessor for a moment, now returned, bearing the knife, at the extremity of the handle of which was engraved, on a silver shield, the letters P. E. T. A. Ens. M. M.
"Paul Emilius Theophilus Arnoldi, Ensign Michigan Militia," pursued Grantham, reading. "This, then, is conclusive, and we have to congratulate ourselves that one at least of two of the vilest scoundrels this country ever harbored, has at length met the fate he merited."
"Fate him merit, Massa Henry!" muttered the aged and privileged negro, with something like anger in his tones, as he returned the knife to the Indian, "he dam 'serter from a king! No, no he nebber deserb a die like dis. He ought to hab a rope roun him neck and die him lying tief like a dog."