“I want to hit them every time, mother, and if I have got to go, you’ll let me take father’s rifle.”
“No, Abner; you’ll go as you are, and if the Indian guard fall in with you, their captain will let you go when you tell your errand. If congress want to fight king George, that’s not to say we are to hate and hurt those we have lived beside so long and who’ve done us many a kindness.”
This conversation took place in the log shanty of a first settler in northern New York in the fall of 1813. War was then in progress, and a few days before General Hampton had returned from his attempt to reach Montreal, and with his withdrawal to winter quarters the settlers along the frontier supposed hostilities were ended for the season. When war had been declared the settlers on the American side of the lines were in terror of being visited by the Indians, whom the British government had enrolled to watch the frontier, but as time proved their apprehensions groundless, they were little affected by the contest that was being waged, beyond having their intercourse with the settlers on the Canadian side restricted, and that intercourse had been close and frequent, for the difference in allegiance had not affected their friendship. In the bush distance goes for little, and though five miles apart, the Blands were Mrs Smith’s nearest neighbors to the north, and their relation had been of the warmest kind. Unable, owing to the presence of Hampton’s camp at Four Corners, to do their trading there, Mrs Smith knew that the Blands must be without groceries and even flour, and, at this, the first opportunity, she was eager to send them some little comforts to vary their coarse fare, especially for Mrs Whiting, the grandmother of the household, who was often bedridden from rheumatism.
The basket was ready for Abner by the time he had finished breakfast. His imagination had been fired by seeing the soldiers at fort Hickory and at Four Corners, and to carry the basket in the usual way was out of the question. Securing thin withe-ropes, made from the bark of the moosewood, he slung the basket on his shoulders like a knapsack, and catching up a cedar pole he grasped it as if it were a musket, and shouting to himself the order, “Eyes front; right foot forward; quick march!” off he set, fancying himself one of Colonel Purdy’s crack brigade. Mrs Smith as, from the door, she watched her boy depart on his errand, while she smiled at his wayward fancy, could not help feeling a thrill of pride in his lithe, active figure, giving promise of a handsome man. That he was shrewd and quick-witted, as well as tall and strong, for his years, she well knew.
The weather had been extremely wet for the season; the ground was soaked and the leaves had long ago been washed from all the trees except the beech. During the night the rain had ceased, and the morning, dull and hazy, gave promise of a dry day. Once out of his father’s clearance, Abner’s way lay through the bush. There was a foot-track that led to the Blands, but now it was so hidden by the litter of leaves that it was indiscernible. That did not signify. Born in the woods, they were so familiar that Abner could find his way in any direction he chose, with as much ease as the dwellers in cities traverse their intricacies of streets and lanes. As he threaded his way among the trees, the chatter of the chipmunk, the whirr of the partridge, and the tapping of a belated woodpecker were the only sounds that fell on his ear, and no sight more unusual than an occasional grey-squirrel or troop of deer. When he had crossed the line that divides Chateaugay from Hinchinbrook, and was fairly on Canadian territory, he became more circumspect, and his fancy changed. He was no longer the right-hand man of a file of soldiers, but a scout, sent into the enemy’s country to get information. Keeping under every cover that offered, looking furtively around before venturing to cross any open that came in his way, treading on the hardest ground he could find, and doubling on his track where the soil treacherously retained his footprints, he found playing at Abner the spy much more exciting than that of Abner the soldier. Suddenly a crackling sound arrested his footsteps. It was, he knew, no noise made by any denizen of the forest, and he turned towards whence it came. Soon he caught the faint odor of smoke, and then he knew there was a fire near—probably the camp-fire of the British guard. Prudence whispered to him to turn away and pass on; curiosity, to go and have a peep at the camp. He was only a boy of fourteen, and curiosity carried the day. Slowly he stole towards the point whence the crackling sound of blazing branches came, and so noiselessly that even the squirrels failed to start at his approach until he passed their perch. Now he could see the smoke, and next the glare of the embers. He thought he saw the figure of a man, but as, when he looked again, the shape was gone, he thought he had been mistaken. He paused to listen. There was no sound save the drumming of a partridge behind him. Redoubling his caution, he crawled towards the spot whence the smoke rose, and when he slowly lifted his head from behind a thicket, he was startled to find himself looking into a camp of the dreaded Indian guard, of whom he had so often heard but never seen. There they were, 21 in number, lying prostrate in sleep in a circle around the fire and the pale autumn sunshine streaming down upon them. Uncouth looking men they were, with daubs of paint on their faces that made them hideous. Beside each one lay his musket, and some even, in their sleep, grasped their hatchets, prepared, if surprised, for immediate combat. Their captain Abner recognized from his being white and wearing the sword and crimson sash of a British officer. With eager eye Abner scanned the unexpected scene, and when the first feeling of fear died away, he grew bold and thought of what he might have accomplished had his mother allowed him to take his father’s rifle with him. The exploits of Robert Rogers and Ethan Allen floated before his mind’s eye and he planned how, had he been armed, he might have shot the captain through the heart and have disappeared before any of the sleeping group knew what had happened. Satisfied with the sight, he moved to withdraw and resume his journey. At the first attempt to turn around, his arms were seized with a grasp of iron, and, looking up, he saw he was in the hands of an Indian, whose painted visage glared with ferocity. Appalled for a moment, Abner stood still, then he made a wrench to get away. It was in vain. Drawing the boy’s arms together, the Indian grasped them by the wrists with his left hand, and when the right hand was thus released he thrust it into the folds of his belt of wampum. Abner’s eyes followed the movement, and when the hand was withdrawn grasping a short, thick knife, which he recognized as the scalping-knife he had heard so much of, a paroxysm of terror smote him, and he gave a piercing shriek. With a diabolical grin, as if he enjoyed the boy’s terror, the Indian passed the knife before Abner’s eyes and tried its edge on his soft chubby cheek, then flourished it before plunging into his scalp. As he made the motion, a billet of wood came hurtling past, and striking the Indian on the head, he fell, dragging Abner down with him. He was lifted up by the captain, whom Abner had seen asleep a minute before, and as he passed his hand over him to make sure he was unhurt, he poured forth a torrent of angry words, in his own language, at the Indian, who gave no sign that the knockdown blow he had received had hurt him. As the captain led Abner into the circle of Indians, who had been awakened by his shriek, he told him he had been scolding his assailant for attempting to scalp him, and said in apology that he was a heathen Indian of the far west, a Blackfoot who had strayed to the Ottawa, and joined a band of the Iroquois. “I do not allow my men to be cruel; my orders be to watch the frontier to prevent invasion by your soldier, and not to hurt anybody.” Then he asked Abner who he was and why he had come nigh their camp, and was answered frankly.
“Ah, my leetle man,” said the captain, who spoke with a French accent, “if you tell me true you get away; but I’m afraid you carry letter,—despatch—eh!” Taking the basket from his back, the captain lifted out its contents, among which were half-a-dozen apples, then a luxury in the new settlement, where the few fruit trees planted had not begun to bear. An Indian snatched up one and took a bite, laughingly saying, “Yankee apple better nor Yankee bullet.” The other contents were of as innocent a description: a few little luxuries that might tempt an invalid, a small bag of flour, and a bottle of liniment. The captain, satisfied there was no letter in the basket, carefully replaced its contents, and then examined Abner’s clothing, making him even take off his shoes. While thus engaged an Indian slouched up beside the captain and, throwing down his musket, began to speak to him, and Abner listened to the guttural sounds with awe.
“Dis man,” said the captain, “tell me he see you leave clearance and follow you. He say, when you come to Canada side you act as ’fraid, hide behind bush, and walk ve-ray fooney. Why you no want to be seen?”
Abner blushed at this description of his enacting the role of Indian scout and perceived how his conduct could be misconstrued. He remembered, also, his mother’s repeated injunction that truth is better under any circumstances, and, with a shamed smile on his face, he told what he was doing. The captain grinned as he listened and patting Abner on the back said: “I know; boy once myself and now fadder of four; you play one leetle game of Indian spy, not tinking real Indian watch you. You one good, honest-faced boy. Pity you Yankee.”
The Indian who had tracked him, smiled as the captain spoke, showing he understood English, and, like all his race, enjoyed banter. “You smell smoke, eh?” he said, “hold up nose and go on. Then you hear partridge drum (here he imitated the sound) me partridge and signal to Joe; Joe steal up behind, catch arms, pull out knife, you—squeal,” and here, as if overcome by the ludicrousness of the scene, the Indian grinned from ear to ear without emitting a single sound of laughter, and poked Abner in the side.
“You make big mistake tink you come to Indian camp without we know,” remarked the captain, “when we sleep, sentinel all round like fox.” Changing the subject, the captain tried to get from Abner what he knew of the movements and whereabouts of the American army, particularly of the number still in camp at Four Corners, which Abner admitted he had visited the day before. It was without avail. The boy realized the information he would give might be used against his countrymen, and he answered evasively. “Ah, well,” exclaimed the captain, “it no matter; we’ve our spies in your camp so well as in de bush.”