Home
  By Author [ A  B  C  D  E  F  G  H  I  J  K  L  M  N  O  P  Q  R  S  T  U  V  W  X  Y  Z |  Other Symbols ]
  By Title [ A  B  C  D  E  F  G  H  I  J  K  L  M  N  O  P  Q  R  S  T  U  V  W  X  Y  Z |  Other Symbols ]
  By Language
all Classics books content using ISYS

Download this book: [ ASCII ]

Look for this book on Amazon


We have new books nearly every day.
If you would like a news letter once a week or once a month
fill out this form and we will give you a summary of the books for that week or month by email.

Title: Hawk's Nest, or The Last of the Cahoonshees. - A Tale of the Delaware Valley and Historical Romance of 1690.
Author: Allerton, James M.
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Hawk's Nest, or The Last of the Cahoonshees. - A Tale of the Delaware Valley and Historical Romance of 1690." ***

This book is indexed by ISYS Web Indexing system to allow the reader find any word or number within the document.



Libraries.)



Transcriber’s Note: A large number of spelling and printing errors have
been corrected without further note. There are still some discrepancies
in the spelling of personal and place names, and the text for the most
part doesn’t use speech marks.



Hawk’s Nest, or The Last of the Cahoonshees.



[Illustration: James Martin Allerton.]



                              Hawk’s Nest,
                      The Last of the Cahoonshees.

                      A Tale of the Delaware Valley
                         and Historical Romance
                                of 1690.

                                   BY
                           James M. Allerton.

                             [Illustration]

                               THE GAZETTE
                            BOOK & JOB PRINT,
                           Port Jervis, N. Y.

                 Entered according to Act of Congress in
                            the year 1892, by
                           JAMES M. ALLERTON,
               in the office of the Librarian of Congress
                          at Washington, D. C.



CONTENTS.


    CHAPTER I.—A Bird’s Eye View of the Delaware and Neversink
        Valleys from Hawk’s Nest Mountains.

    CHAPTER II.—The Water Spout.

    CHAPTER III.—Tom and Drake at the Lifting Rocks.

    CHAPTER IV.—The Bear and Panther.

    CHAPTER V.—Parting of Mother and Child.

    CHAPTER VI.—Cahoonshee.

    CHAPTER VII.—The House of Death.

    CHAPTER VIII.—Cahoonshee on the Origin of Man.

    CHAPTER IX.—The Teacher and Pupil.

    CHAPTER X.—Asleep on her Mother’s Grave—Going Fishing—True
        until Death.

    CHAPTER XI.—The Second Lesson—Completing his Education—Found
        new Friends—The Mutiny—Death of Sambo.

    CHAPTER XII.—Moccasin tracks in the sand—Cahoonshee at the
         Climbing Tree—The Battle of the Neversink—Drake’s fearful
         leap—The virtue of the Grape Vine.

    CHAPTER XIII.—The Dead Shot—The Bee Tree—Amy a Prisoner in the
         hands of the Indians.

    CHAPTER XIV.—Restored to reason—Cora, the Rough Diamond—A
         Temperance Lecture—Found two Grand-Fathers.

    CHAPTER XV.—Death of Admiral Powers—Five years in a Mad
         House—Appointed a Lieutenant—Return to America.

    CHAPTER XVI.—The bee hunters—Drake and Rolla on the trail—Call
         of the tree toad—Answer of the blue-jay.

    CHAPTER XVII.—The storm—Buried in the river—Old Shell to the
         rescue—Which is which and what is what?

    CHAPTER XVIII.—The hunt—The fatal shot.

    CHAPTER XIX.—Mutual mistakes—The lost child found—Cahoonshee’s
         last will.

    CHAPTER XX.—Farewell to earth—Cahoonshee on the future—Death of
         Cahoonshee—Married on her mother’s grave.

    CHAPTER XXI.—Cora receives her reward.

    CHAPTER XXII.—Death of Thomas Quick, Sr., and the threat of his
         son Tom.

    CHAPTER XXIII.—Tom kept his vow and had his revenge.

    CHAPTER XXIV.—Killing a buck with seven skins—The biter
         bitten—Throwing a young Indian down the rocks—Hiding guns in
         hollow trees.

    CHAPTER XXV.—The whiskey scene—Six Indians roasted.

    CHAPTER XXVI.—Capture, escape and death of Tom—Honored by a
         monument.


[Illustration]



[Illustration]



CHAPTER I.

    A Bird’s Eye View of the Delaware and Neversink Valleys From
    Hawk’s Nest Mountain.


It is contrast that makes the beautiful. What a monotonous world this
would be if it was one entire level plane. It is the variegated colors
that makes the landscape beautiful and harmonious. In fact it is upon
contrasts that we build all of our notions of the beautiful. Yet the
same object seen by different persons, from the same standpoint, creates
different impressions. Some admire the Alpine mountains and deep blue
sky of Italy, and the towering majesty of Mont Blanc. Here, with them,
all creation is centered, and there is nothing beautiful that is not
connected with Italian skies, hills or landscapes.

Others view Vesuvius, and admire the smoke and fire as it is thrown
heavenward. Others immure themselves within the walls of cities like New
York or London, and satiate their eyes with brick and mortar, and their
ears with a jargon of sounds. Others admire a more extended scenery,
or rather a scenery where nature is represented in all its variegated
colors; where river and rivulet are blended into one; where the cascade
and cataract drop their moisture into the depth below; where the fauna
and flora are equally distributed; where the mountain ascends thousands
of feet, in contrast with the plain below. In a word, where nature’s
great architect has faithfully executed the fore-ordained design.

But where can this perfection be found? Where is this Eden?

I have gazed upon all the cities of the world: From Mont Blanc I have
viewed Italy and Switzerland; From Pike’s Peak I have viewed the Pacific
and the western slope; I have stood over the thundering and majestic
Niagara and viewed the spray going heavenward. All these views are grand
and sublime, yet they lack contrast between great and small things that
are calculated to make nature beautiful in all its parts and satisfy the
mind, eye and ear at a single glance.

Yet there is one such spot on earth; one beautiful place where all these
things are combined; one pinnacle of the mountain top, where the eye can
take in all these beauties at a single glance.

It is that pinnacle that rises hundreds of feet above the level and
embraces within its view the beautiful valley of the Delaware.

It is Hawk’s Nest Mountain. Here the Shawangunk range rises hundreds
of feet above the Delaware river, and the beholder imagines himself
transported to the skies. These heights are perpendicular, or rather they
project over the river, and in its side are deep furrows, crevices and
caverns. And in these crevices and caverns, the hawks and eagles build
their nests and rear their young without fear of being molested by man.

A few feet from the Hawk’s Nest are the Lifting Rocks. In looking upon
these, you gaze upon one of the wonders of the world. Here are three
large rocks, but a few hundred feet apart, weighing from 30 to 100 tons,
elevated above the ground about five feet and resting on three stone
pillars. These pillars are equal distance apart—as much so as if they had
been placed there on geometrical principles.

Where did these huge rocks come from? When were they placed there, and by
what power were they raised and placed on these triangular pillars?

Geologists say that they were brought from a great distance by the ice
during the glacier period, and that their setting on these pillars of
stone is one of the freaks of nature beyond the comprehension of man.

Standing at Hawk’s Nest and looking southeast, we behold “High Point,”
the most elevated land in the State of New Jersey, it being the highest
point in the Shawangunk range. Northeast of us the Appalachian mountains
rise to the horizon as far as the eye can reach.

[Illustration: INN AT HIGH POINT.]

Turning to the southwest, “Pilot Knob” comes into view, towering hundreds
of feet above the surrounding hills. To the northwest rises the Carbon
mountains that furnish us with coal. And above all towers Mount Arrat,
where it rains or snows every day during the year.

This direction also brings into view the rocky fortress where Tom Quick,
the Indian Slayer, dug his cave and lay in ambush to wreak vengeance on
his deadly foe. Northwesterly rise the “Fish Cabin” mountains, through
whose rocks the water has cut a channel hundreds of feet in depth, and
falls in the Delaware below. At Handsome Eddy and Shohola, the rocks rise
in majesty above the river, and just beyond is the fatal battleground of
the battle of the “Minisink.” At the north the country is dotted by the
thrifty farmer with his cattle grazing on a thousand hills.

About five miles east from Hawk’s Nest rises the Shawangunk mountain, and
at its base flows the lovely and placid Neversink (Mahackamack) river.

The Neversink valley runs northeast and southwest whilst the Delaware
Valley runs northwest and southeast. The waters of the Delaware and
Neversink unite about five miles from Hawk’s Nest, at a point called
“Tri-States Rock,” this being a place that a person can stand in three
states at the same time—New York, New Jersey and Pennsylvania.

Two miles above Hawk’s Nest, the waters of the Mongaup empty into the
Delaware river. One-and-a-half miles east of Hawk’s Nest, the rapid
Shinglekill plunges into the Delaware river. The fountain-head of this
stream is a Big Pond, a small lake, about three miles from Huguenot. The
waters of the Steneykill and Little Pond unite with the Shinglekill. The
Sparrowbush unites with the Delaware about three miles from Hawk’s Nest.
Below Hawk’s Nest Rock is Hawk’s Nest road, a lovely and romantic drive,
from which can be seen the beautiful views I have described. Hundreds of
feet below this road runs the Delaware and Hudson canal. As our vision
extends across the canal and river to the Pennsylvania shore, we see the
iron horse, puffing and blowing, as if to escape from the power of man.
As we watch it in its course, it dashes across the iron bridge at Saw
Mill Rift and enters the state of New York. At the angle of the Neversink
and Delaware rivers, nestling between the mountains, lays the beautiful
city of Port Jervis, with its factories, churches and monuments. On
the west rises the lofty spires of Mount William and Point Peter, and
opposite in the sister State of Pennsylvania is located the beautiful
village of Matamoras, the rival town of Milford, whilst a little to the
south is located the pretty village of Tri-States. About five miles
northeast from Port Jervis, on the line of the canal, near the banks of
the Neversink, is the old Peanpack (Huguenot) settlement. Thus I have
described the Delaware Valley as seen by a bird’s eye view in July 1891.

But it is not of this time I write. Our tale of love and suffering dates
back two hundred years ago; when the red man of the forest held sway,
and contended for every inch of ground that the white man attempted to
appropriate; when the war whoop, instead of the steam whistle, was heard.



CHAPTER II.

    The Water Spout.


On a cold rainy day in the month of September, 1689, two emigrant wagons,
each drawn by a pair of oxen, was seen passing along the old Kingston
trail, on the east side of the Neversink, toward Peanpack. The day was
far advanced, and the night was threatening. The women, children and
furniture were concealed within a covered wagon. The drivers, with a
hickory gad in their hands, were beside the oxen. And thus, over stump,
log and stone, they trudged along. An opening is made in the cover, and
a sweet, pretty face peeps out. Lewis, ain’t we most to Peanpack? I’m
cold, tired and hungry, and Amy is quite sick. Get along, said Lewis,
at the same time bringing the gad down on the oxen. Yes, replied he, we
will soon be there, and if the pesky red-skins will let us alone we will
have a good night’s rest. This was Lewis Powers with his wife and child
en route for the far west in search of a home. Amy, their daughter, was
a bright little girl, five years old. His wife was a model of a wife and
mother, twenty-two years old, whilst Lewis was twenty-six, a strong,
robust and healthy man. The next wagon contained William Wallace, wife
and boy. Just as the sun was hiding itself behind the western hills, the
party reached the Peanpack ford. This was passed safely, and, passing up
the banks a few rods they encamped for the night. The wagon was unpacked,
and out came a young Newfoundland dog and two white cats. A fire was
built and in a short time the party sat down to supper. The party had
left Connecticut eleven days before and had now reached within three
days journey of their future home. Wallace’s boy’s name was Walter and
he was six years old. The next morning they broke camp and the next
night camped on the west side of the Mongaup. The next day brought them
to Beaver Brook, and just after sunset of the third day they arrived on
the banks of the Callicoon, or East Branch of the Fishkill (Delaware.)
They selected a spot on the south side of the stream and went to work
in earnest to clear a farm. Wallace located about half a mile up stream
above Powers. In the course of a few days each of them had built a small,
but comfortable log house. A confiding friendship was soon established
between Walter and Amy, and the dog, Rolla, grew to be large and
sagacious. Wallace’s house stood but a few rods below a large beaver dam
that flowed over several hundred acres. They brought with them a large
quantity of ammunition and traps. Otter and beaver were plenty in the
streams and before the arrival of spring the two men had dried several
hundred dollars worth of furs which they sold to the traders that went up
and down the river in flat boats.

Thus, year after year passed. Nothing occurred to disturb the harmony of
the settlers. Now and then a straggling Indian called, but never molested
them. They were contented and prosperous. Amy was now ten and Walter
twelve years old. The mothers of the children had taught them to read and
write. Several acres of land had been cleared on each farm and log barns
built. But now a misfortune that entirely changes the destiny of these
families overtakes them. An unusual drouth had occurred. Little or no
rain had fallen during the months of June and July. The heat was intense
and almost unbearable.

Powers was dressing a deer that he had just shot in the river. Amy
and Rolla were playing at the door and Mary was writing a letter to
her Connecticut friends to send by the next trading party, when an
unlooked-for clap of thunder broke upon them. Instantly a dark cloud is
seen in the west. It was so dark and thick that it almost shut out the
light of the sun. Then came a gust of wind which increased in its fury
every moment. This was followed by a heavy rain. It fell in such torrents
that in less than an hour the river began to rise and overflow the banks.
Just then Walter Wallace came running in and said:

Father wants you to come and help him. There has been a water spout. The
beaver dam is going out, and we will all be washed away.

Before Walter had finished his story, Powers was on his way to assist his
neighbor. On arriving there, he was convinced that nothing could save
them. The storm was raging in all its fury. Trees were torn up by their
roots, and the air was filled with branches.

Save your wife and child, cried out Powers; get them on the raft.
Wallace’s wife and Powers sprang to the raft. Wallace cried out to his
son: Go into the house and get my gun. Walter sprang into the house and
took down the gun. The crash came. The entire beaver dam had given away
and the water and logs passed between him and the raft. Walter sprang
on a fallen tree and escaped to high ground. Turning, he saw that the
raft, with his father, mother and Powers had broken loose and was swiftly
passing down the stream, surrounded by trees and logs. In a few moments
the house shared the same fate. Thus, in an hour, what they had toiled
for years to build up, was, in a moment, washed away.

Mary Powers, as soon as her husband left, went to the river bank. She
was convinced from the appearance of the water spout that her own home
would soon be washed away. The water was now running around the house and
retreat to the higher ground was cut off. With the sagacity of a mother,
she ordered Amy on the raft that was tied to a sapling on the river bank
but a few feet from the door, and then hurriedly throwing a blanket over
her shoulders, stepped on the raft. Rolla whined and barked, jumping out
of the house and then in again, as if in search of something he did not
like to leave behind. The white cat appeared and Rolla took her in his
mouth and with a bound leaped on the raft. At that moment Wallace and his
wife passed her.

Where is Powers? cried the anxious wife and mother. The incessant slash
of the water prevented her from hearing, but Wallace’s finger pointed to
the water.

Drowned! she cried. Amy, you have no father.

For over an hour the sapling held the raft, when a gigantic tree that had
been washed from the banks, struck it, and they were hurled into the foam
of that mad stream. One, and only one saw them start. Walter Wallace had
reached a point of land opposite Power’s house, but could get no nearer.
A few moments after the raft broke loose the house followed. As young
as Walter was, he took in the situation, and realized the fact that he
was not only an orphan, but that Amy and Mary must meet a watery grave.
No boat could live in that wild stream. He had but one thing to console
him—the dog and cat might swim ashore and find him. Then he gave vent to
his pent up feelings and cried until he fell asleep, where we will leave
him for the present.



CHAPTER III.

    Tom and Drake at the Lifting Rocks.


I now take my readers to Hawk’s Nest. There sets, or rather lay, two young
men, not yet out of their teens, under one of the Lifting Rocks. The wind
blew a gale from the northwest and the rain fell in torrents. They were
dressed in hunter style. Both were strong and vigorous. One had a rifle
laying by his side and the other an Indian bow and arrows. Under the rock
lay a deer that they had killed just before the storm commenced. They
seemed to be very much attached to each other, but it was plain to be
seen that they were not brothers. Both had grown to the stature of men.
The elder, whose name was Charles Drake, weighed about one hundred and
fifty pounds, with light eyes and hair. The other was called Tom Quick.
He was of dark features, black hair and brown eyes. And as they lay under
the rock waiting for the rain to cease, they engaged in the following
conversation:

I say, Tom, how do you think these large rocks got on the top of these
large stones?

I don’t know! replied Drake. I have often thought about that a great many
times. I suppose the Great Spirit placed them there. If the Great Spirit
piled up these mountains and dug out the great rivers, He could easily
lift one of these rocks.

Oh! replied Tom, that is a very easy way of building rocks, rivers and
mountains, to say the Great Spirit done it; but who made the Great Spirit
you are always talking about? Who has ever seen or heard him?

I can’t answer that, replied Drake; I only know what my squaw mother told
me; that the Great Spirit made all these things, and the Indian thinks he
sees the Great Spirit in the lofty mountain, foaming streams and rustling
leaves. He thinks he hears Him in the whistling wind, the roaring
cataract and the belching thunder. He thinks he feels Him here, (laying
his hand on his heart.) He believes that when he dies he will meet this
Great Spirit in the happy hunting grounds, never to part again. But Tom,
what does your own good mother tell you about these things?

Tom seemed to awake from a dream. He had listened attentively to what his
companion had said, and it seemed to have awakened new ideas in his mind.

My mother, replied Tom, talks about these things in a different way. She
hates the Indian and the Indian’s Great Spirit. She says God done all
these wonderful things, and she reads to us from an old leather book,
held together by iron straps; that God made the mountains and rivers;
the trees and flowers; the birds and the fish; the thunder and the
lightning; and last of all he made man; and that if we are good, when we
die we will go to God and live with him forever.

Did your mother or any of you ever see God? asked Drake.

No, replied Tom, mother says God is a Spirit and can’t be seen, but is in
everything and is everywhere; that he is now looking at us and hears what
we say.

It was now Drake’s turn to be astonished. The white man’s God saw all
that was said and done: He even heard what he and Tom was talking about.
Throwing himself on the other side, he remained silent for a few moments,
and then said:

Tom, I guess there ain’t much difference between the white man’s God and
the Indian’s Great Spirit. Neither of them have been seen, but both of
them have done all these wonderous works. It looks to me that they are
the same certain something that we don’t know—can’t know much about until
we arrive at the Great Hunting Grounds.

Thus, these untutored youths speculated upon what has racked the brains
of philosophers of all ages, and with about the same results.

I say, Tom, do you think that the Great God, or Great Spirit, (I don’t
think it makes much difference which you call them,) works as we do? That
he has hands, feet, eyes and ears? That he smooths these rocks as we do
the stones that we grind corn with? That it was in this way he made the
Bottle Rocks that stick up in the Neversink river?

I don’t know, replied Tom, scratching his head as if in search of an
idea. I only know what the missionary says about it. He says the Bottle
Rocks were once large, ragged rocks that broke loose from the mountain
and fell into a pool of water, and for ages were whirled about until they
were made into the shape of a bottle. But on the Steneykill there are
two other funny made stones—large white ones—as large as the rock we lie
under—in the shape of a heart. They are just alike, yet they are hundreds
of feet apart. The missionary says they were once in one stone and were
frozen in the ice. That when the warm weather came, the ice brought them
down here. That the ice struck a mountain of stone and split the rock
into two parts and dropped one half and carried the other half a little
further and then dropped that.

Who and what is this missionary that knows so much? asked Drake.

Oh, said Tom, he is a man; only a man, and looks just as we do.

Oh! I am glad of that, replied Drake; I thought he might be the God your
mother’s book tells about.

Drake, you often speak about your squaw mother. Where is your real mother?

That I don’t know, replied Drake. I have no recollections of any mother,
except the old Indian woman that I lived with, until your father captured
me on the Mongaup. From my earliest recollection, I remained in the
Indian camp until the time I came to your house, and since that time,
your mother has been my mother. From what I could learn whilst I was
among the Indians, my father and mother lived on a big boat that had big
guns that made a noise as loud as thunder, and would carry a thousand
Indian canoes on deck. And it was whilst father and mother were on shore
that the Indians stole me and carried me off, for the purpose of getting
big money. And this was about all they would tell me. The first that I
can remember, we lived in a big rock house (cave.) It is not a great way
from the place the Indians call Stockbridge. It was with the Stockbridge
Indians I lived. My old Indian mother used me as well as other Indian
children were used. When they went on their war or hunting expeditions,
the women and children were generally left at home. Our living was wild
game and Indian corn. Every year, a party was formed to go on a hunt
for beaver and otter, for the purpose of getting their furs to sell to
the traders, for which they got in return beads, knives, tomahawks and
fire-water. It was on one of these hunting expeditions after otter, at
the head-waters of the Mongaup, that your father captured me.

I have said that usually, my Indian mother used me well. But there were
times when she was cruel. When she got mad she was furious, and would
come at me with all vengeance, with knife, club, or anything she could
get hold of. Then I would run in the woods to get away from her, and
sometimes stay three or four days.

It was on one of these occasions that your father found me and brought me
to your house, and you know the rest.

Did the Indians make that black spot on your breast? asked Tom.

I don’t know, replied Drake. It has always been there. The Indians called
it big canoe. Look, Tom, and see what it looks like, said Drake, at the
same time baring his bosom.

Why Drake, that is an anchor! said Tom; and sure enough, there is a big
canoe; yes, and there are letters on it, like the ones in mother’s old
bible. There is C. D. on the top, and E. N. on the bottom. That wan’t
made by the Indians, Drake, maybe your father put that there. It don’t
look like Indian work; they paint themselves, but that rubs off, but this
don’t rub off. Water won’t wash it out.

No, replied Drake, the more I wash it, the plainer it gets. It seems to
be under the skin.

What did they call you when you were among the Indians? asked Tom.

“Swift Foot,” replied Drake.

And why did father name you Drake, when he brought you to our house?

He said that, or something like that was my name; that it was painted on
my breast.

I see, replied Tom. “C. D.,” that means Charles Drake.

The sun was now down. The wind whistled and the rain fell in torrents.
The hawks had hid themselves within the caverns of the rocks. The beasts
of prey had sought refuge from the storm, and the boys concluded to
remain under the rock until morning.

Thus, they slept in unconscious bliss, when suddenly they were aroused by
an unearthly noise that pierced them to their hearts. Such shrieks were
calculated to arouse the slumbering dead. Tom caught his rifle, and Drake
his bow and arrows. The storm had cleared; the rain had ceased, and the
sun was just rising over the Shawangunk Mountains. The shrieks continued.

What does this mean? cried Drake, are the Indians upon us? and is this
their war-whoop?

No, replied Tom, it is the hawks. They are out in full force.

I should think so, replied Drake. They are so thick that they darken the
sun. See them dive down. They think that they see the carcass of a deer
in the river, and want to pick its bones for breakfast, but something
scares them back.

Tom, by this time, was at the top of the pinnacle where he could see
miles up and down the river. The banks were full and the whole river was
strewn with logs, trees and drift-wood. The hawks continued to dive down
towards the water, then suddenly rising and screaming.

I see! I see! cried Tom. See there, Drake; there is a raft just going
through the Cellar Hole! Yes, by Jove! there it goes, and there is
something on it!

That is so, rejoined Drake. It is a bear.

Yes, it is a bear, but what is that it is standing over? It is a woman. I
see her dress.

It must be a tame bear, rejoined Drake. See it lick the woman’s hand.

Stop! said Tom, I see two women there, a big and little one, and the
little one lays across the big one. There is something else there—a cat
or rabbit; yes, and the bear is a dog.

These, said Drake, are some of the up-the-river-folks, that have been
washed away, and got on the raft for safety. I guess they are all dead
but the dog. But we must try and save them. If there is any life in them,
it will be drowned out in going through the rift below the Island.

Then they sprang down the rocks like two antelopes. Reaching the river,
Tom was about to plunge in.

Stop! cried his companion. Nothing but a duck or its mate can live in
that water; I am the mate of the duck; I am the Drake that will venture!

And suiting the action to the word, plunged in. For a moment he
disappeared in the surging foam, and then rose to the surface. The river
was so thick with drift-wood that it was with difficulty he could stem
the current.

At last he reaches the raft.

The cat mews—the dog whines, but the women remain as silent as the grave.

By superhuman efforts, Drake lands the raft at the head of the Island,
at the mouth of the Shinglekill. Tom had run along the bank, swam the
Bennykill, and was at Drake’s side when the raft landed.

Are they dead? exclaimed a rough, stentorian voice that could be heard
above the slash of the water, emanating from a person now for the first
time introduced to our readers.

I guess so father, they don’t move, replied Tom.

The old man jumped into the canoe and bent his head over the prostrate
form of the child. After listening for a moment, he snatched her in his
arms and said:

Her heart beats; as long as that beats, there is life, and as long as
there is life, there is hope. Take her to the house, Drake, and tell
Betsy to put her to bed and cover her with bear skins.

Drake caught her in his arms and waded across the Bennykill, and gently
laid her in bed and covered her with skins.

The old man now made an examination of the mother, during which time
Rolla kept whining. He would jump up to her and bark—as much as to say
“Look up Mary, you are in the hands of friends.” But no signs of life
appeared. Tapping the dog on the head, the old man said:

Faithful animal, more faithful than some that claim to have souls; not
only to death, but faithful after. Yes, dog, you may bark—you have a
right to bark, but you can’t bark her back, she has gone to the Indians’
fair Hunting Ground. But we must respect the dead. Here, Tom, help place
her in the canoe, we will take her ashore and give her Christian burial.

Tom raised her up, and as he did so, large quantities of water came from
her mouth. The dog barked and sprang towards her.

That is a good sign, said the old man, the dog has discovered life.
Brute, as he is, yet instinct tells him more than the wisest men know.

Look! cried Tom excitedly. Her eyes quiver and her lips move. Bend
yourself to the paddle, Tom! Pull for your life! Pull! We may save her
yet!

The shore was soon reached, and the lifeless body of the mother was laid
by the side of her child.



CHAPTER IV.

    The Bear and Panther.


We left Walter Wallace asleep on the banks of the Callicoon. How long
he would have slept, we cannot say, had it not been for an unlooked-for
event. The day was just dawning. The silver streak of morning had lit
up the eastern sky, when Walter, in a half-waking, and half-dozing
condition, thought he felt Rolla by his side. He placed his paw on him
and partially turned him over. Then he run his nose along and smelled his
body. Then came a fierce growl. This brought Walter to his feet. A sight
met his eye calculated to strike terror to the heart of an old hunter.

At his feet stood two young cubs, while at a distance of about twenty
feet, perched on the limb of a large tree, was a large sized panther,
and at the root of the tree, stood a large black bear, the mother of the
cubs at his feet, looking intently at the panther. As Walter raised, the
bear turned one quick glance at him, but instantly turned her eye on the
panther. Walter did not know what to do. It was the panther that he was
afraid of. He had been told that a bear would not molest a person unless
they attempted to injure her cubs. It was evident that the bear was
watching the actions of the panther, and caring but little for him. He
therefore concluded to make friends with the bear by patting her cubs.
Gently stooping down, he fondled the cubs. They seemed to have no fear of
him, and played about him like two kittens. Now and then, the bear would
cast a wistful eye at him, as much as to say “protect my young.” Just
then the panther gave a spring and landed on the limb of the tree under
which Walter and the cubs lay. The bear instantly jumped to the spot, but
paid little or no attention to him.

It now occurred to Walter that he had his father’s gun with him.

Casting his eye to the ground he saw it. He immediately raised it to his
shoulder, and taking steady aim across a small sapling, aiming directly
between the panther’s eyes, fired. The panther fell. No sooner had it
touched the ground, than the bear grasped it, and in an instant, its
bowels were torn from its body.

During the encounter between the panther and the bear, the bear kept up
a continual growl. But as soon as the panther was dead, the bear was
as cool as if nothing had happened. Walking quietly up to her cubs,
she took one of them in her mouth, and carried it to the panther, then
she returned and got the other. Young as the cubs were, they seemed to
understand what their mother meant, and immediately commenced to lap the
panther’s blood. The old bear then approached Walter, and smelled him all
over, and then returned to her cubs, and in a few minutes walked off, and
was seen no more by Walter. Still, he was at a loss what to do or where
to go, and for the first time realized that he was hungry.

The sun was now far up in the eastern sky, and he concluded that he would
take that direction as that would take him to Peenpack. Reloading his
gun, he threw it across his shoulder and started for higher ground in an
easterly direction.

He had proceeded but a short distance, when he heard a voice say in plain
English:

“North! North! A little further north!”

This both pleased and frightened him, and jumping upon a large log,
and looking in the direction from which the sounds proceeded, to his
astonishment, he saw a man standing behind something that had three legs,
waving his hands. Looking in the direction that the hand indicated, he
saw another man holding a flag. On the top of these legs was something
that glittered in the sun like gold. The man that stood behind it would
look down at it, and then at the flag. In looking a little further back,
he saw ten or twelve men, some of them on horses, some with axes and some
drawing a long, light chain. He was amazed at the sight, not knowing
whether to hide or run. He heard a slight noise behind him, and turning
around, stood face to face to some kind of a being. He knew not what it
was. It looked just like a man, only it was jet black, curly hair and
pearly-white teeth. He thought it must be the devil that his mother had
told him about, but he failed to see the forked tail. In his fright he
sprang from the log and ran towards the white man.

Indian! Indian! cried the devil behind him.

Instantly the whole party was in commotion, and the men on the horses
raised their guns.

Who? Where? What is it? cried the man at the three legged object.

Here, Massa, here! cried the black, at the same time seizing Walter by
the coat.

This soon brought the whole party to the spot where the negro held
Walter. Webb saw at once that his supposed enemy was but the stripling of
a boy, and a white boy at that.

Who is it with you? pleasantly asked Webb.

No one; Walter replied in a mild and mannerly way.

No one? said Webb, that can’t be, boy, you are fifty miles from any
habitation, you are a stool pigeon for the Indians!

Stool pigeon, sir? I don’t know what stool pigeon is, I have not seen any
Indians.

Are you alone?

Yes.

Where is your father?

I haven’t got any; he was drowned yesterday in the Callicoon.

Webb at once became interested in the boy, and said:

Sit down, and tell us all about your father and mother, and how they came
to get drowned.

Walter began where his recollections commenced, and gave a history
of his family; where they came from; their living on the Callicoon;
the water-spout; the breaking of the beaver dam; his parents being
hurled into the mad, wild Callicoon, and closed his narrative with the
description of his encounter with the bear and panther.

Webb, though of a rough exterior, had a kind and sympathizing heart.

I believe you, boy, I believe every word you say, and promise you a
protector until a better one is provided. When did you have anything to
eat last?

Nothing, sir, since yesterday morning.

Here Sambo, (addressing the black,) said Webb, get this boy something to
eat.

That I will, in right quick time, too, replied the black. If dat dere
little kid eat as fast as he run, he git on de outside of a bear in no
time. Golly, Massa, he jump twenty—thirty—forty feet in no time. He took
me for de debble. O golly! golly! I wonder if I look like his satanic
majesty? I suppose so; ha! ha! ha! Well, come dis way, buck; I’ll stuff
dat skin of yours so full dat it bust; Golly, no dinner, no supper, no
breakfast. I kinder guess dat his belly feels kinder lank.

Stop that jargon, said Webb. The boy can’t live on nigger talk. Take him
to the kitchen.

Yes, Massa, I’ll take him to the kitchen, in right quick time, and show
him to de cook. Come along buck.

That ain’t his name, said Webb. Call him Walter.

Come along den Water dis way. Dis darkey stuff your skin like a Christmas
turkey. Come den, quick, quick come.

Sambo lead the way, and Walter followed. After going about a mile, they
came to a small flat in a hollow, near which was a spring of cool water.

Near the spring was a large log house. Sambo conducted Walter into the
house, and spread before him venison and corn bread, which he devoured
with an appetite. Then they returned to the surveying party.

Now, said Webb, can you find the way back to where you shot the panther?

Oh yes, replied the boy. It is just down the hill there, can’t you hear
the water roar?

The whole party now started, and in a few minutes was at the scene of the
encounter. There laid the panther, the largest of his species.

Webb set the men at work to take off his hide, while he and Walter went
to see the destruction caused by the water-spout the day before. Not
a vestige of either house was to be seen. The beaver dam was dry, the
cleared land was washed and gone down the stream. A cat, and a cat only,
was left to tell the tale.

On a tree, standing on a small island formed by the washout of the day
before, lay a large white cat. The sight of this cat brought to Walter
recollections of the great loss he had sustained, and the tears rolled
down his cheeks.

Was that your cat? remarked Webb.

Yes, sobbingly replied Walter. That is my Amy. Kit! kit! kit! Come here.

The cat heard and recognized the voice, and a moment later, was in
Walter’s arms. He fondled her and talked to her in such a way that Webb
was convinced that there was something besides the cat that affected him.

Never mind, my boy, you may take the cat with you to the camp and keep it
for a playmate. I suppose that this was the only thing you had to love in
your wilderness home?

No, replied Walter. I had another playmate that I loved, and the cat is
named after her. Yes, Amy Powers was just as pretty, good and kind as
this kitten.

And then he sobbed as if his heart was broke.

I think, said Webb, that as young as you are, that Cupid has shot an
arrow that has lodged where you will never get rid of it.

Cupid? said Walter, I don’t know what Cupid is.

I mean, remarked Webb, that you have fallen in love with the namesake of
your cat; and if she was as loving, gentle and confiding as the kitten
you hold in your arms, you are not to be blamed.

It is a great deal to have the kitten, she will always keep my memory
fresh for Amy.

Never mind, boy; you will grow older, and will find some other girl that
you will love, and forget Amy.

Forget Amy? he replied; No, Mr.——, I don’t know your name. You don’t
know me. No, I never will, I never can forget my Amy. And I here and now
swear, in the presence of my God and my desolate home, never to forget
her! I further swear never to love another!

Good, bold and generous boy, exclaimed Webb. You know nothing of the
world, and but little of yourself.

I know myself well enough to know that I shall never forget my first and
only love.

    (See Note A in Appendix)



CHAPTER V.

    Parting of Mother and Child.


We now return to Quick’s cabin, on the Shinglekill. His residence was
on the banks of the Delaware, at, or near Milford and the cabin on the
Shinglekill was temporally used during the trapping season. The Senior
Quick was a Hollander, and had settled at Milford while the country was a
howling wilderness. He had three brothers, and from them has sprung the
numerous Quick families in the Delaware Valley, and he was the father of
Tom Quick, one of the heroes of our tale.

This cabin in which they carried Amy and her mother, was a log structure,
in the midst of a Butternut grove. The outside of the house was nearly
covered by the skins of wild beasts, hung there to dry. Suspended on
poles and trees, were skulls of bears, panthers, deer and other animals,
in which the birds built their nests and reared their young. Up the bank,
and between the house and the Hawk’s Nest, was a cleared field, on which
they raised corn.

Entering the house, we are struck at the order and decorum everywhere
seen. The chimney is in one end of the house, and consists of a layer
of red sand stone placed against the logs. There are no jambs to the
chimney, and the smoke escapes through an opening in the roof. Hanging in
crotches, on the side of the building, are three smoothly polished guns.
In one corner of the room stands a number of bows and arrows. Overhead,
tied to the rafters, hang numerous traps, and all about the house hang
bags containing dried berries, herbs, etc. On a small table lies the
family bible, bound with iron straps. On one side of the chimney is a
closet containing the dishes and cooking utensils. On the back side of
the room are four bunks in which to sleep. The end of the room, opposite
the fire-place, is partitioned off, and furnished with a bed made of
skins and furs.

It was in this room the mother and child were laid.

Heat some stones, said the elder Quick. And you boys go to rubbing them.
We must start the blood.

Betsy soon had a number of warm stones wrapped in furs in the bed, while
the boys applied themselves vigorously to rubbing their bodies.

The child soon gave evidence of restored animation. Breathing became
perceptible. The muscles contracted, and her eyes partly opened. Then
came a convulsion which shook her whole frame. Water and froth ran from
her mouth.

That will do boys, said the old man. Let her lay quiet now. She will soon
be herself again.

Rolla had been an anxious spectator of the scene we have described.
Standing with his fore-feet on the foot of the bed looking intently into
Amy’s face, he gave three suppressed barks.

The child is safe, exclaimed the old man.

Just then Rolla gave a mournful whine.

But, continued the old man, the mother will never see the sun set again.
The dog, by some intuitive knowledge, sees life for the child, but death
for the mother.

Then came a moment of suspense. The house was as silent as the grave, and
all present stood gazing on the marble forms before them. A flush came
into Amy’s face. Her eyes open.

Ma-ma—Rol—Rol!

And again all was silent.

She speaks, said Betsy, and her first thought is of her mother.

And her second of her dog, said Tom.

She now began to moan and talk, but not in a way that could be
understood. At length her words were connected, but it was evident that
she was delirious.

Oh! Walt. Do come and save your little Amy—River—big
raft—pa-pa—drowned—hold her Rolla, hold her!

Thus she continued to rave for a few minutes, and then fell into a sweet,
natural sleep.

In about half an hour her eyes opened, and she raised up and gazed about
her in astonishment.

Where is mother? Where am I? Where is Rolla?

Rolla heard her, and bounded on the bed. Amy threw her arms about his
neck.

Good Rolla! she exclaimed; Save mother—pull her out of the water—drag her
on the raft!

Drake put out his hand, as if in the act of pulling the dog away.

No, no, boy, let the dog alone. That is nature’s own medicine. That
is more soothing than a canoe-load of the white man’s pills. The girl
requires quiet. Let the dog caress her.

This was said by a new comer, in a sweet and sympathizing voice, by
an old man by the name of Wilson, (Cahoonshee,) of whom I shall speak
hereafter.

In the meantime, all the arts known to the white man or Indian were
resorted to, to revive the mother. They had, in a measure, restored
circulation, but the breathing was accomplished with difficulty, and she
showed no signs of consciousness. And thus the day passed in suspense.

The sun had just hid itself behind the western hills, as Amy aroused, and
raised herself up in the bed. Rolla gave three soft, pleasant barks, and
leaped on the bed and off again, and ran out of the house, and in again,
jumping onto, and barking at every one, seemingly to express his joy at
Amy’s recovery.

Where am I? she said, looking around the room.

Among friends, replied Wilson.

Where is mother?

Here, child, but unable to speak.

And Rolla; where is he?

Rolla, hearing his name pronounced, answered in person, giving a bark of
joy, bounded on the bed.

Amy now seemed to be herself again, but it was thought best not to
question her until she had fully recovered her strength. She was taken
out in the shade of the butternuts, where we will leave her and Rolla for
the present.

During this time the mother lay in a semi-conscious condition. At times
she showed signs of reason, but was too weak to speak. The muscles of her
mouth moved, but only a groan was heard.

Thus the night passed and the gray mist of morning is appearing. She
opened her eyes and made a motion with her hand. In an instant Wilson was
at her side.

What do you want good woman? Who do you want to see?

Instantly the whole household, including Amy and Rolla, surrounded the
bed. The mother looked first at one, then at the other, and then cast her
eyes heavenward, and dropped back on her pillow.

Blind! said Wilson.

Oh mother, dear mother, look at Amy! the child cried.

Now the mother shows signs of returning strength and was again raised up
in bed, and as before, apparently looked to see those she could hear but
could not see. There was no light in her eyes. She makes an attempt to
speak, but her words are unintelligible. She tries again:

A—A—Amy—

Here, dear mother; here I am.

Kiss me, kiss me Amy.

She took hold of Amy’s hand and tried to speak again.

What is it mother? What do you want to say?

Rol—Rol—Rolla!

Before the words were finished, Rolla sprang to the bed and placed his
fore-feet on her bosom.

See, mother, Rolla is here; said Amy.

A whine, accompanied by a mild bark escaped from the dog. The mother
understood by that, that the dog was there. Then taking Rolla by the
fore-paw, she, with a great effort laid it in Amy’s hand. Casting her
sightless eyes toward heaven, she remained motionless for a few moments,
evidently in prayer. A tremor came over her. A struggle ensued.

Nearly gone, said Wilson.

Her eyes open again. Now they can see and have the expression of
intelligence. A silence ensues. She speaks:

Amy—Rolla—and drops on her pillow dead.

Rolla seemed to understand his mistress’s last wish and kissed the child
that held its paw.



CHAPTER VI.

    Cahoonshee.


I will now briefly relate the history of the man that was so abruptly
introduced to our readers a few pages back, and who was an interested
spectator at the death scene we have described.

Cahoonshee was reputed to be seven feet in height, with a large powerful
frame. At a glance it was plainly to be seen that he was the true type of
the Indian. High forehead, extended cheek bones, and a quick, twinkling
eye. At the time we introduce him, he has passed his three-score-and-ten
years. His hair is as white as snow; his voice low; his words few, and
to the point. He belonged to a small tribe of the Delawares called
Cahoonshees. When a small boy he was captured and taken to England. While
there, he was painted in true Indian style, decked out with feathers in
the most fantastic way, and carried around the country to be gazed at.
This was repulsive to Cahoonshee, but for a long time he could not help
himself. At length it was resolved to educate him for an interpreter and
missionary. Cahoonshee proved to be an apt pupil, and in the end a good
scholar. In a few years he mastered the English language and acquired a
fair knowledge of the arts and sciences of that day. Then he returned
to his native land, with the understanding on his part and on the part
of the English that he was to remain in their employ and act as their
agent and interpreter; and probably Cahoonshee intended to abide by this
understanding when he left London.

They landed at Manhattan in the evening, and it was difficult for the
Captain of the Reindeer to persuade him to wait until next morning before
he started for the rivers and mountains of his childhood. Before the sun
had risen the next morning, he was landed at Weehawken, and started on
foot to climb the Palisades. Reaching the summit, he cast his eye back
at the deep waters of the Hudson, and mentally resolved never to cross
it again. As the earth was becoming enshrouded in the mantle of night on
the second day, he struck the waters of the Delaware. During his journey
from the Hudson to the Delaware, he was made to feel sad. The ravages
of Christianity was to be seen at every step. The Indian wigwam had
disappeared, and the white man’s house had taken its place. The white man
had appropriated the land, and the Indian had gone—where? Echo answers
where!

He stood on the bank of the river in silent meditation, living over
again the days of his boyhood. When he hunted in these mountains, and
fished in these streams, when his quick ear caught the sound of the canoe
paddle. Looking in the direction of the sound, he saw a canoe swiftly
approaching, containing but a single individual.

The canoe was close to the shore where Cahoonshee stood. He was at a loss
whether to hide or make himself known. He judged that the canoe contained
a white man, but the evening had so far advanced that a gloom passed over
the waters.

Friend! said Cahoonshee in the Delaware tongue.

The man in the canoe dropped his paddle and seized his gun, then, looking
toward the shore, saw a tall, athletic man, unarmed, with the palm of his
hand extended. The man in the canoe, seeing this sign of amity, advanced
to the shore, and saw that the stranger was an Indian in white man’s
dress.

Delaware? exclaimed Quick in English.

Yes, replied Cahoonshee in the same language. Delaware in search of his
old home and friends in the mountains.

My brother speaks like a white man, but looks like an Indian; said Quick.

I am no white man, I am an Indian, all Indian. Not a drop of white man’s
blood runs in my veins. I am Cahoonshee.

Cahoonshee! exclaimed Quick. They were once a powerful and a brave tribe,
but the last of them have passed away. Their lodges have rotted down;
their fields are covered with thorns and briars, and their braves have
gone to the spirit-land; not one of them is left; the echo of their
voices are no longer heard on the Steynekill.

Does my brother know that country? asked Cahoonshee; Do you know the
Steynekill? Do you know the silver lakes and the beaver dams?

Yes, I know them all. I have traveled over the mountains, trapped in the
rivers and fished in the brooks. But there are no Cahoonshees there now.

Where did they go to?

The last of their braves were scalped by the Salamanques years ago,
replied Quick.

At this disclosure, Cahoonshee drew his hand across his eyes and remained
motionless. It was evident that he was struggling with his feelings. He
swung to and fro, like a tree in a gale.

Did my brother have kin with the Cahoonshees? asked Quick.

Yes, all my kin. Father, mother, brother, sister—I am alone, not even a
brother. Better that I had been there and died with them.

No, brother, you wrong the Great Spirit, who does all things well. But
you have a brother, we are all brothers. Come, Cahoonshee, go with me to
my house, and to-morrow I will go with you to the grave of your fathers.

Cahoonshee stepped into the canoe, and in a few minutes landed at
Milford, the home of Quick. Cahoonshee partook of the white man’s
hospitality with grace and ease, after which, he related his history
from early boyhood, his capture, and subsequent voyage to England,
his being made a show of there, his education, and return home. Quick
was interested in his history, but what most interested him, was the
education and manly appearance of his Indian guest.

After Cahoonshee had finished his story, he placed his hand to the side
of his face, and seemed to be absorbed in some deep study from which
Quick could not arouse him.

Will my brother go to bed? asked Quick.

No, replied Cahoonshee, white man sleep, Indian think.

At first Quick thought there might be some Indian deviltry behind all
this apparent friendship.

Indian sleep, white man guard the fire, replied Quick.

Cahoonshee seemed to be stung by this mistrust.

Yes, Indian go to bed, but Indian no sleep. Indian think of the
Cahoonshees. Indian never see one of his blood. Then casting his eyes
heavenward, said:

White man lead. Indian follow.

Quick raised a ladder that led to the room above and was followed up by
Cahoonshee.

There brother, is a bed of furs caught on the Steynekill. There you can
sleep and dream.

At the dawn of day, Cahoonshee and Quick were on the trail that leads to
Peenpack.

Where do you wish to go first? asked Quick.

To the graves of my fathers, replied Cahoonshee.

That is at the sand hill, on the east side of the Neversink, near the
Kingston trail. (See Appendix.)

From this time until they reached the sand hill, not a word was spoken.
The Tri-States rock was passed, and the Neversink Valley opened up before
them, while to the right rose the Shawangunk mountains. Cahoonshee wanted
to go to the sand hills by a route that no Indian would see him.

There are the graves of the last of the Cahoonshees, said Quick, pointing.

Cahoonshee was silent and meditative. Before him was to be seen the
graves of his fathers. The river had washed the banks, and skulls and
skeletons were bleaching in the sun. Cahoonshee picked up one of the
skulls, and peered into the cavities, from whence once emanated the fire
of intelligence, and was the dome of thought. His frame shook, his eye
moistened.

Enough! he said. Let us go.

The travelers pursued their way along the Neversink until they reached
Basheskill, where they encamped for the night. Scarcely a word passed
between Cahoonshee and Quick. Cahoonshee appeared to be in a deep study,
the meaning of which, the white man could not fathom. The next morning
they crossed the river and wound their way along the Neversink for
several miles, when Cahoonshee suddenly exclaimed:

Beaver Dam! His eyes for the first time had fallen on a spot that
reminded him of the days of his boyhood. It seemed to warm the blood in
his veins and awaken long slumbering emotions that could no longer be
suppressed.

Here, he exclaimed, is where I last saw my kindred; here is where my
mother last smiled on me; here is where my father patted me on the head
and said: “Be a good brave, and when I am gone to the Spirit World,
govern the Cahoonshees wisely.” Let us go.

Then they struck northwesterly across Handy Hill to the head waters of
the Steynekill and encamped for the night. The next night brought them
to Mongaup Falls, and from there they went to Bushkill Falls. Then they
crossed the ridge, and struck the Steynekill near the Heart Rock. This
was the original camping ground of the Cahoonshees. Here Cahoonshee
recognized his old home, and pointed out places that were of interest to
him in his boyish days. From there they went to Hawk’s Nest, and then
to the Quick cabin on the Shinglekill. After supper, while sitting in
the room, lighted by the blaze of a pine knot, Cahoonshee became more
communicative.

When does my brother return to Manhattan? asked Quick.

Never, replied Cahoonshee. White man expects me there, white man wants
Indian to help white man cheat Indian, white man great and powerful,
he take Indian’s land, and tell Indian to go west. Yes, Indian will be
driven west, until the great Pacific swallows them up, Indian become
extinct, white man own all, Indian die, white man live forever. No! No!
Cahoonshee take no part in this. English educate me, English make me
wise, yet English care nothing for Indian. English have a God, Indian,
the Great Spirit. English God help white man rob Indian. English send
missionary to convert Indian, Missionary in the cabin, fire-water in the
hold. White man no practice what they preach. Indian true to the Great
Spirit. White man all self. White man wise, Indian superstitious, Indian
believe in great medicine man, white man in money. No, Cahoonshee will
never return to Manhattan. Cahoonshee remain here until the Great Spirit
calls him home. Cahoonshee return to the scenes of his childhood on the
Steynekill and live alone until his dust unites with that of his kindred.
Think not, white man, that I am an enemy of your race. No, I am their
friend. I bow to the will of the Almighty. The education I received from
the white man, made me more wise, yet more miserable. I see that the
Indian must go down, while on their ruins the whites will raise a mighty
nation. But between us, brother, there must be no enmity. Let us smoke
the pipe of peace, and let this be the pledge between us: As long as the
grass grows on these hills, or the waters runs in these rivers.



CHAPTER VII.

    The House of Death.


We will now return to the house of death, on the banks of the
Shinglekill. There lay the marble form of Mary Powers, the mother of Amy.
She was lovely in life; in death, a model for an artist. Her countenance
would indicate that she died in a peaceful state of mind, and perfectly
resigned to the fate that had overtaken her. At the head of the bed
stood Amy, crying as if her heart would break. At her side, stood her
faithful dog, lapping her hand and rubbing his head against her seemingly
trying to console her for the loss she had sustained in the death of her
mother. Tom and Drake were interested spectators. This was the first
natural death that either of them had ever witnessed. The senior Quick
stood in the door, with his back to the corpse, apparently much affected.
Cahoonshee stood at the foot of the bed, looking at the face of the
dead. Betsy gently led Amy out of doors, and taking a seat under the
butternuts, attempted to console her.

Don’t cry child, it is God that has called your mother home, and He has
promised to be a Father to the fatherless.

But I have no mother now, said Amy.

Yes, dear child, I will be your mother, and Tom and Drake shall be your
brothers.

Let the girl vent her feelings, said Cahoonshee, who unperceived had
approached. Let her mourn her loss. Let her learn from this how uncertain
all things are.

God did it, said Betsy. He does all things well. He did it for the good
of this child.

That may be, replied Cahoonshee. Your old Bible says so. It speaks in
thunder tones, that God works in a mysterious way his wonders to perform.
But the girl cannot understand that. She can’t understand why in a day
she is deprived of both her parents, and cast among strangers in this
wilderness world. Blame her you must not—console her you cannot. Older
and wiser heads cannot reconcile these things. But we must prepare to
bury her. We can give the mother a christian burial, and then take care
of her orphan child.

A grave was dug on a rise of ground on top of the river bank. The body
was wrapped in furs, and this little group of mourners walked to the
house prepared for all living. Cahoonshee and the Senior Quick led the
way; Tom and Drake followed, bearing the corpse on a roughly constructed
litter; then came Amy, Betsy walking on one side of her and Rolla on the
other. The grave is reached, the body is lowered and covered with green
boughs, and Tom and Drake are about to perform the last offices to the
dead, when Rolla raised his head, looked intently, whined, and sprang
toward a tree. Instantly all eyes are turned in that direction.

Walt! Walt! passionately exclaimed Amy, there is my Walt! Come Walt! Come
and see Amy! Father dead—mother dead—none left but Walt and Rolla. Come
kitty—kitty, come to Amy!

There in a tree sat the white cat that had been seen on the raft, but
owing to the excitement of the occasion, had been forgotten. Hearing her
name called, she slowly came down the tree.

Thus, another was added to the list of mourners. The grave was filled,
the mound erected, when Cahoonshee said:

This is nature’s decree. “Dust thou art, and unto dust thou shalt
return.” Let us return to the house. And setting the example he walked
away.

But Amy refused to go. Throwing herself on her mother’s grave, she cried:

Oh! my own dear mother, I cannot, I will not leave you! Oh! let me die
here; let me lay by your side. Who will love and look after me now?

Rolla looked up into her face—the cat mewed and nestled more closely to
her bosom.

Leave her to her own thoughts, and that of her friends, said Cahoonshee
looking back.

But Drake lingered. The scene put him in mind that he too once had a
mother. That he too had been torn from her. That he too, by circumstances
over which he had no control, had been thrown among strangers. And, as he
saw the tears flow down Amy’s cheeks, moisture came in his own eyes.

Come Amy, come with me. I will be your brother and friend.

Amy raised her eyes to those of her friend and said:

Brother, you are good to think of me—you are good to promise to look
after me. But who can look after me like my own dear mother that is now
buried out of my sight?

Yes, replied Drake, I trust she is in the heaven that Cahoonshee and
Betsy talks about. But I don’t know much about such things. I never had
any mother to tell me about God and heaven.

But Drake, you had a mother, and if she was a good mother, she would
have told you all about the bible and God. My mother used to read to
me how God made the world in six days, and everything there was in it.
That people lived in a big garden, and were very good and happy. Then
they got to doing naughty things, and God made it rain very hard and the
people were drowned, all except one family, and they escaped in the ark.
I suppose that it was just such a big rain that came on the Callicoon and
drowned father and mother. But they wan’t bad, and I don’t see what he
wanted to drown them for.

This was a subject that Drake knew but little about, and he could think
of nothing to say that would be consoling to the girl. But at last he
said;

Cahoonshee, the big Indian, will tell you all about those things. He
knows. He has crossed the water in a big canoe. He studies books. Let us
go to the house and talk with him.



CHAPTER VIII.

    Cahoonshee on the Origin of Man.


At the close of Chapter VI, we left Quick and Cahoonshee conversing
by the light of a pine knot fire at Quick’s cabin on the Shinglekill.
Here they smoked the pipe of peace, and pledged to each other eternal
friendship. During the night it was arranged that the next morning they
would go to the Heart Rock, on the Steynekill, and erect a cabin for
Cahoonshee. The cabin was built a few rods from the Steneykill brook,
near a spring. At this place Cahoonshee spent part of his time, and the
balance at Quick’s. Thus, a mutual friendship was established between the
white man and Indian that lasted through life.

Cahoonshee keenly felt the degradation of his people. The education he
had received in Europe had swept from his mind the Indian superstitions
that were cherished and practiced by his fathers. He believed that all
European nations were combined to drive the Indian from the forest and
appropriate the land to themselves. Yet he held to the religion of his
fathers, really seeing no difference between the white man’s God and the
Indian’s Great Spirit. He believed in a first cause. This cause began
to operate at the beginning of time. That time began when matter began
to move. He believed that this first cause was an intelligent cause. He
ignored nothingness—or rather claimed that there was no such thing as
nothing. He rejected the common term of Spirit, and advocated that a
Spirit was an actual entity, although as invisible as air or gas. That
this Spirit, this entity was substance, although it could neither be
seen, heard or felt. That this entity possessed certain attributes, among
which were power, plan and design.

The reader will perceive that such a man, with such a mind, having the
exalted views of Cahoonshee, would not feel at home with either white
man or Indian. He was ahead of the age, and saw in the dim future the
extinction of his race. His tribe was already extinct except himself. He
believed that the merciless white would continue to drive the powerless
Indian west, until the bones of his race would bleach on the western
slope, and be washed by the Pacific.

It was for these reasons that he wished to return to the scenes of his
childhood, and spend the rest of his days in comparative solitude.

Yet he had one idea, and that idea was to acquire and impart knowledge.
But the world was not prepared to listen to such depth of thought.

He resolved at death to leave one pupil behind. That pupil should be a
white man. That man should be Charles Drake. That he had succeeded, in
a measure, is evident from the conversation Drake and Tom had at the
Lifting Rocks, as narrated in Chapter III. His mode of instruction was in
the true Indian style.

A few evenings after Cahoonshee had taken up his quarters in his cabin on
the Steynekill, he and Drake were sitting together, when the moon began
to light up the eastern sky. Drake watched it intently until the full
moon arose above the horizon.

Cahoonshee, he said, you say that the sun is a burning mass, a liquid
flame, and that it is the heat from this mass that warms the earth. Is
that beautiful moon also a mass of fire?

It is supposed not, replied Cahoonshee. We derive but little heat from
the moon. It has cooled off, and it is only the reflection of the sun on
that planet that makes it appear so bright to us.

You say that it has cooled off. What do you mean by that? Was it once
like the sun, a blaze of fire?

Of course, Drake, no one has ever been to the moon to make a personal
inspection. Yet the wise men of the east think they have good reasons for
believing that the moon, and this earth, and all the planets and stars we
see in the heavens, were once a burning mass of fire, that the moon has
cooled off, and is now a cold, uninhabited world.

You do not mean to say that this earth on which we live was, at one time
a seething mass of fire?

I do not mean to assert that, I simply say, that by investigation, I am
led to believe that such was the case.

Cahoonshee, where do you say that man came from? and what was the reason
for the great difference between the white man and the Indian?

Ah, Drake, you have opened a subject that is but little understood, and
one that I am not capable of satisfactorily answering. Yet, I will give
you my views.

Betsy’s bible gives an account of the creation of man. That God made
him from the dust of the earth, and in His own image. But you should
understand that this is the white man’s bible, and in it the Indians are
called heathens. But the Indian’s bible is much older, and plainer to be
read.

_It is Nature’s book._

The rocks, rivers and mountains are its chapters. Beasts, birds and
reptiles are its verses, and the Great Spirit is its author. And within
this book will be found all that does or ever did exist. The constituent
parts are the mineral, animal and vegetable kingdoms of the world. Each
has within itself a principle of organic life, but of itself cannot
produce either animal or vegetable life, but a combination of these
elements, by a chemical process, known only to nature, produces something
unlike either the constituent parts. Thus the principle the germ of all
animal and vegetable life is contained in the natural world, and it only
requires that these different properties should be combined in order to
work out the natural result.

It is done by the same power and upon the same principles that draws the
apple to the ground, and balances the planet in its orbit.

Thus, the origin of all animals and vegetables are to be found in earth,
air and water, and by a combination of these properties, under favorable
circumstances, nature’s desired result is accomplished.

Therefore, nature produces from nature just what nature requires.

Thus we find that at this day, seed, dug thousands of feet beneath the
earth, sprout, grow and bring forth fruit and vegetation unlike any that
have grown before. While buried in the bowels of the earth, there was no
opportunity for developement, no opportunity for chemical combination.
But when brought in contact with the rays of the sun, the soil of the
earth and the gases of the air, the life principle within the seed
springs forth, and it becomes a beautiful flower or an animal—perhaps a
man. It is either vegetable or animal. Sometimes both.

Man sprang to the earth in every quarter of the globe where nature had
prepared the way and furnished substance on which he could live. Thus,
men in different countries and continents were different in structure,
color and language. Thus I account for the white, brown and black races.

The white man finds his God and religion in the bible. The Indian finds
the Great Spirit in nature. The Indian saw the wonderful works of nature
going on before his eyes. He saw the sun in the heavens, and wondered
from whence came the fuel. He saw the vaulted heavens dotted with stars,
and wondered what held them in their places. He heard the thunder and saw
the lightning flash, and asked from whence came this power. He saw his
fellow struck with death, and asked, “is this the last of man?”

He sought a solution of these problems by studying the nature of that
power that could perform such great and mighty works. And having came to
the conclusion, by a course of reasoning, that this power emanated from
a source above and beyond nature, he began to worship that power, and
conceived that this certain something possessed certain attributes, among
which was power, plan and design. That if there was a design, then there
must have been a designer. This designer the Indian called the Great
Spirit.

Thus, the Indian was a religious animal. And here the worship of the
Great Unknown and Unseen commenced. And inasmuch as this unknown
power was intangible and could not be seen, the Indians worshiped
representative Gods. Some worshiped the sun, some the moon, and some the
monsters of the deep. The Indians worshiped the God of the valley, the
mountains, the rocks and rills, the rivers and springs.

Thus I have tried to answer your question. At another time I will still
further unfold this mystery.



CHAPTER IX.

    The Teacher and Pupil.


We now return to Walter Wallace, who we left on the banks of the
Callicoon in company with Surveyor Webb and party. Webb soon discovered
that Walter was a boy of more than ordinary intelligence, and that his
education had not been neglected. He could read and write, and had made
some advancement in arithmetic.

They returned to camp about noon and eat a hearty dinner to which Walter
did ample justice, although he had eaten a late breakfast.

Webb had been pondering in his mind upon the propriety of asking Walter
to become one of his party, and retain him, if possible, until the survey
of the Minisink country was completed. To that end he said to Walter:

Are you willing to remain with me and learn to survey?

I am willing to do anything I can, the boy replied, but I have not got
learning enough to read the figures on that thing.

But you can learn, said Webb.

I can try, replied Walter.

That is all that is required. You must try and be accurate. There is no
such thing as good enough. Everything must be done accurate.

I will try my best, said Walter.

That is all that is required, and to-night I will give you the first
lesson.

After supper, Webb and Walter went to the top of the hill. The compass
was properly adjusted on the tri-pod.

Now, said Webb, I want you to level the instrument. That is very
important. Unless the compass is exactly level, the needle will not
balance.

Walter took hold of one of the sights and attempted to level the
instrument, but failed.

Take hold of both of the sights, boy, one with your right and the other
with your left hand. Use force enough to bring the bubbles in the centre
of the glasses forward. Then do the same with the cross level.

I see, said Walter. This glass levels it one way and the other glass the
other way, and when the bubbles are in the centre of both glasses, the
compass is level. Let me try it again.

He did so, and the compass was level.

Bravo! exclaimed Webb. You have mastered one of the most difficult parts
of the adjustment of the compass. Now take hold of that screw on the
under side with your thumb and finger, and turn it around until the
needle moves.

He did so, but excitedly stepped back as if he had seen some apparition.

Don’t be frightened, boy, it will not hurt you.

It is alive! It moves! exclaimed Walter excitedly.

You are half right boy. It moves but there is no life there.

What makes it move? See! It goes first one way and then the other.

True, but it will soon stop, said Webb.

But what makes it move? Black iron can’t move itself. Is there wheels in
there that moves it like father’s clock?

No. It moves by the same force that exists in nature, which is but little
understood. We know the fact that it does move, and that is about all we
know about it.

But it is boxed up tight. The hand can’t touch it, or the wind blow it.
But something makes it go. What makes it go?

That is a mystery I cannot fully explain myself, but as you progress,
you will learn as much about it as I know myself, and I trust much more.
There are a great many things in nature that are beyond the comprehension
of man, that time and study will generally explain.

But it has stopped. It is now perfectly still. What stopped it? Father
used to say that if a body was put in motion, it would never stop unless
it came in contact with some other body. But nothing has come in contact
with it.

You are slightly mistaken in that. There is a slight friction on the
centre pin. Yet that did not stop the needle. The fact is, the same
invisible power that started it, stopped it. But I will explain more
about it when you have learned its uses. You will see that on one end is
a small copper wire wound around it. That is to balance the needle on the
centre pin, and denotes that it is the south end of the needle. The other
end always points to the north.

How can you know that? asked the boy.

Because it always points directly, or nearly directly towards the north
star. If the needle gets out of order it will not point to the star. Now
turn the compass so that the needle will be directly back of the letter N.

Walter did so.

I can’t see any star there. Now I see hundreds of them. Which one is the
north star?

It is a small, twinkling star. It will appear and then disappear. Did
your father ever show you the big dipper, or great bear?

Oh, I know the big dipper, but I never saw the great bear.

They are both one, boy. The two lower stars are called pointers. Look to
where they point to, and tell me what you see?

I see the small, twinkling star you spoke of. I will never forget that.
I suppose that the pointers on the dipper always point the same way, and
that I can find the star by looking at the pointers?

You are partly right. You can always find the star by following up the
pointers, but the dipper changes. It is now south-west of the star. In
two months it will be directly under it. Thus it continues to revolve
around the star, but the pointers always point towards the star.

To adjust the compass and take the sights are simple and easy, and I
think you will learn to do it in a few days as well as I can. But you
have got to study the books and learn how to calculate the area and
angles. Now we will return to camp, and in the morning you can set the
compass on a line North, forty-five degrees West.

Walter retired, but slept but little that night. He was highly elated at
the prospect of learning to survey, had many misgivings as to whether he
would succeed. But if study and perseverance had any virtue, he was bound
to succeed.

As soon as it was light in the morning he was up and out with his
compass. It was some time before he could adjust the compass to his
satisfaction, but at last he accomplished it. He next liberated the
needle, by means of the thumb screw.

The moment the needle began to move, he became excited. The idea of a
dead piece of iron moving itself was something above his comprehension.
He thought it must be moved by some supernatural power. Why, he thought
to himself, did not Mr. Webb tell me where the force comes from? He
talked as if neither himself or anybody else knew the cause! He next set
the compass as he thought North, 45° West, but the sights pointed East of
North, and he was pondering over this, when Webb arrived.

Good morning, Walter, I see that you are up and at it early. You have the
compass very correctly adjusted. What course do you say it points? I told
you North, 45° West. Is that it?

That is what the figures say, yet it points to the Northeast instead of
Northwest.

You have fallen into a very common error. Now look and you will see
that the letters E and N are reversed on the compass consequently when
you wish to run N. W., the North end of the needle must be between the
letters N. and W., and to run N. E., between E. and N. Now set the
compass on the figures 45, between N. and W., and you will have the
course we are running.

As if by instinct, the boy set the compass on the course indicated.

Well done, said Webb. Now let us get our breakfast, and then you can take
charge of the compass.

Breakfast was eaten, and the whole party went to the place where they
quit work the day before. By the direction of Webb, Walter set the
compass over the centre stake, with the needle pointing N., 45° West.

Well done, boy! Now you see sights on both ends of the compass, with
large holes. Between them are fine slots. Now you must look through both
of these sights at the flag ahead, and when you can bring the two sights
and the flag in range, you are right.

Walter motioned the flag to the point he thought in range, and said:

There! I guess that is right!

You must not guess; you must know, replied Webb. Let me look. You have
made another common error. You have sighted through the large holes. Try
again and look through the slots.

Walter looked again and saw that the flag was twenty feet out of line.

Go South! he cried. Now, Mr. Webb, I _know_ that I am right.



CHAPTER X.

    Asleep on Her Mother’s Grave—Going a Fishing—True Until Death.


We left Amy and Drake with their pets at the mother’s grave. To force
Amy from the spot that contained her mother, was calculated to deprive
her of her reason. Thus, Drake remained a silent listener to her grief.
She refused to return to the house, or be comforted, and cried herself
to sleep on her mother’s grave with the cat in her arms and Rolla by her
side.

Drake sympathized with her. He said to himself: Would I have loved my
mother so intently, had I been permitted to live with and love her? But I
have no recollections of ever seeing her. When I was a babe I was stolen
from her. If she loved her babe as Amy loved her mother, how terrible
must have been her feelings when she learned that I had been stolen.
Undoubtedly she thinks that I am dead. I had a father—perhaps brothers
and sisters. I wonder if they would be glad to see me! I know my mother
would. They tell me a mother’s love for her child never dies. My father
sailed a ship then—perhaps he does now. If I should go where these ships
sail, I might find him. If he made that figure on my breast, he would
know me.

Thus Drake reasoned over the matter, and came to the conclusion to go in
search of his parents.

Yes, he said to himself, in searching for them, I may find Amy’s friends.

Presently a shadow passed him, and looking up, saw Cahoonshee
approaching.

Sleeping, he exclaimed, and as unconscious as the mother that sleeps
beneath her. Perhaps she would be better off if she was as cold and
lifeless as her mother. But such is not nature’s decree. She is saved for
some purpose, for what, we know not. None of us can fathom the ways of
the Great Spirit. We have buried the mother. Now let us take care of the
child. Take her in your arms, Drake, and take her to the cabin.

Drake took her up as tenderly as a mother would her babe and carried her
to the house. Rolla and the cat followed, mute and silent.

Amy was so overcome by her grief that she did not awake, and Drake laid
her and her cat Walt on the bed.

Poor girl, said Betsy, she can’t give her mother up. But she must have
something to eat. She has not eaten anything since her mother died.

Don’t wake her up, said Cahoonshee, let her have her cry and sleep out,
and in the morning she will be more reconciled.

That night the parties talked over what they would do with Amy, and came
to the conclusion to keep her in the Quick family until they could hear
from her friends. That when they went on their farm at Milford, they
would take Amy with them, that there she would have some opportunity to
attend school, and mingle in society with those of her own sex.

When the family arose in the morning, Amy was up and gone. Instinct led
Drake to her mother’s grave, where he found Amy and Rolla.

Amy was sad, but composed, and was engaged in decorating the grave with
flowers gathered from the mountain side.

Good morning, Amy, I see you still mourn the loss of your mother.

Yes, she replied, mother did all she could for me while living. Now that
she is dead, I will visit her and her grave. I shall keep the flowers
fresh and the grass green on her grave as long as I can. Won’t you help
me Drake?

Certainly, he replied. What can I do for you?

You can help me build a wall around the grave. Down where mother came
from, they build a wall around the graves, and set a stone with the name
on it. I want to do so by mama’s grave, and Rolla and I will come to see
it every day.

Yes, replied Drake, Tom and I will build the wall, and Cahoonshee will
set the stone. Come sister, go to the house with me. It is breakfast
time. After breakfast, Tom and I will build the wall.

Amy was reluctant to leave the place that contained all that was dear to
her. Drake unconsciously put his arm around her.

Come Amy, you still have friends. There are those that love you.

At breakfast, little or nothing was said. Amy ate a hearty breakfast, and
seemed to be reconciled to her lot.

She was then informed of the conclusion that had been arrived at night
before—that she was to live with them until her friends could be
found—that they would return to their farm at Milford in a few days, and
that she was to go with them.

Amy scarcely knew what to do or say. She did not want to leave her
mother’s grave so soon. She wished to be where she could make it daily
visits and keep the grass green.

I would rather stay here with you, she said. You have been very good to
me and mother. Let me stay here and keep house for the boys, at the same
time glancing at Drake.

The boys go with us, replied the elder Quick.

Then I will go, but I want the wall built around the grave before I go.

That shall be done to-day, said Drake. Come and tell me how you want it
built.

May I call you brother? said Amy.

Yes, he replied, and I shall be proud to have such a brave sister, and
involuntarily he placed his arm around Amy’s waist, and they walked to
the grave in silence.

Tom followed, and a wall was soon laid around the ground that enclosed
the sacred dead, and in a few days Cahoonshee erected a stone on which
was inscribed “Here lies Mary, the mother of Amy Powers.”

In a few days they went to live on the Milford farm. But Tom was seldom
at home. He did not like school or books. He seemed to like the company
of the Indians better than he did his father’s home, and hunted and
fished with them until he acquired their language and habits.

Not so with Drake. He employed every opportunity to acquire knowledge and
improve his mind, and would listen for hours to Cahoonshee, as he recited
history, science and tradition.

Amy was now just blooming into womanhood, being nearly sixteen years old,
with a tall and commanding figure, with auburn hair and dark blue eyes,
cheeks the color of a peach-blossom. Her hair hanging in ringlets over
her shoulders, her eyes sparkled, and were a fair index to her mind.
Lively, and like the most of her sex—talkative.

They remained on the farm during the summer season, and at the cabin on
the Shinglekill during the trapping season.

A few days after they had moved on the Milford farm, Amy and Drake, at
the edge of evening, went fishing in the Delaware river. Up to this time,
nothing had been said to Amy about her home or former friends. Drake had
long wished to hear her story, but out of delicacy had refrained from
questioning her. Amy often spoke of the loss she had sustained in the
death of her mother, but went no further. She seemingly wished to conceal
from the world her parentage.

The water was bubbling at their feet. The wind whistled through the
branches of the trees. The birds sang. The squirrels chattered, but Drake
and Amy remained silent.

Now and then they would exchange glances toward each other, as much as to
say:

“Why don’t you speak?”

Some time before this, Drake had resolved to go in search of his parents,
but now he felt it his duty to stay and protect this orphan child.

_Duty_, is that all? don’t _I love her_? he said to himself in an
undertone, but loud enough to be heard by Amy.

Love who? Who do you love? she remarked with a blush.

Drake blushed, but could think of nothing to say to cover his confusion.

Amy placed her arm about his neck, seized his hand, and gazed intently
into his eyes.

You love somebody. I know you do. Do you feel just as I do.

Do you love some one? asked Drake.

Yes, she replied, laying her hand on his breast. Yes, brother, I do love,
I did love, I ever shall love, and bursting into tears, she cried like a
child, and it was several minutes before she could control her feelings
to finish the sentence.

Drake could not understand this. At first he thought that she had
reference to him. But the language “I do love, I did love, I ever shall
love,” indicated, that young as she was, she had not escaped cupid’s dart.

Calm yourself, Amy, perhaps I can assist you. Is it Tom that you love?
and are you crying because he would rather be with the Indians than with
you?

No brother, I like Tom, but I don’t love him.

What difference is there between liking and loving? asked Drake.

Oh, I don’t know, brother, but it seems to me that I feel different
toward Walter than I do toward Tom and you or any one else. I don’t know
what makes me. I only know that I do.

Who is Walter? and where does he live? asked Drake.

He was Walter Wallace, and lived by us on the Callicoon.

But where is he now?

I don’t know—probably dead. Yet something tells me that he is alive and
that I shall see him again.

When did you see him last? Drake inquired.

I saw him last standing on the bank of the Callicoon, but he could not
get to us. Mother and I and the cat were on the raft, and the river was
running between us. He acted as if he was trying to tell us something,
but the water made such a noise we could not hear him.

He probably thinks you were drowned, replied Drake.

He may think so, but he don’t know it, and as long as he don’t know, he
will wait and look for me. He was a brave, bold, good boy. He loved me,
and I loved him, and we were to be married. Oh, brother, I think I can
see him now, standing on the bank of the river, and looking at me. But
Drake, you said to yourself, (but I heard it,) that you “loved her.” Now
tell me all about it as plainly as I have told you. We are brother and
sister. Neither of us have a mother or relative that we know of.

Drake remained silent.

Have I offended you? Have I asked too much? If so forgive me.

I have nothing to forgive. I have no one to love in the sense you put it.
I will be content in liking—not loving.

What do you mean, brother? I don’t understand you. Your words imply more
than you say. You can trust Amy.

Yes, dear girl, I can, and do trust you. When I said “_I love her_,” I
meant you. I did not intend it for your ears. I was thinking whether I
did not feel different toward you than I would toward a sister. I am glad
that you told me you loved Walter Wallace. Now we understand each other.
I will still like you. I will still be your brother and friend, and, if
possible, I will find your lost lover.

Good and generous boy! exclaimed Amy, throwing her arms around his neck
and kissing him passionately. I hope you don’t love me as I do Walter. If
you do, how miserable you must feel—how unhappy you must be. How I would
feel to meet Walter and he should tell me that he liked me but did not
love me—that he loved another. But that can’t be. He loves me. I know it?
I feel it here! (placing her hand upon her heart.)

Amy, said Drake, you are a good generous girl. Few of your sex would
have been so honest. I have promised to find your lover if possible. I
intend in a short time to go in search of my own parents, and I will then
inquire for your friends. But so far you have said nothing to me about
your parents that would assist me in finding them. Are you willing to
give me a history of them as far as you know?

Yes, as far as I know, but I don’t know much about them. I have heard
that my grand-father lived in England, and was very rich. That father
married mother against his wish. That he gave father his choice to
leave and abandon mother, or leave his house. Father refused, and was
disinherited. Then father and mother came to this country and settled in
Connecticut, not far from Manhattan, until they moved to Callicoon, and
that is all I know about it.

That will help me, replied Drake. Now that we understand each other and
ourselves, let us return to the house. And placing his arm around her,
they returned in silence.

Before this interview, Drake had regarded Amy as a friendless orphan,
and felt an interest in her welfare. Although he called her sister,
and was addressed by her as brother, he was ignorant of the ties that
usually exist between brother and sister. He never enjoyed the society
of brother or sister, father or mother, and it was this that led him
to remark “don’t I love her.” But now his eyes were open. Now he could
understand what love was, “pure and unalloyed.” Now he could understand
what had prompted his feelings toward Amy. His feelings were not of pure
friendship for the orphan child he had promised to protect. He had a
selfish motive. Her frank sincerity and child-like simplicity had raised
her in his estimation. He saw in the girl, a noble, generous, woman, wife
and mother. Yet he realized that she loved Walter Wallace, and be he dead
or alive, she would never love another. She would only like him as a
brother, and with that he must be content.

But I have promised to be her friend, and her friend I will be.

It cost Drake an effort to come to this conclusion, and it showed that
he was a high-minded, generous man, and could appreciate Amy’s love for
Walter, by his own love for Amy.

Noble Girl. Worthy of the love of Walter Wallace or any other man.



CHAPTER XI.

    The Second Lesson—Completing His Education—Found New
    Friends—The Mutiny—Death of Sambo.


That is bold language boy. You say you “know that you are right.” There
are but a few things in this world that we positively know. We are likely
to be deceived in many ways. Sometimes the eye is imperfect, and the mind
clouded. Sometimes our eager desire to accomplish an object, aided by our
imagination, leads us astray. Now look and see if you can see the white
spot on the flag staff?

No, I can’t see the white spot, but I can see the red.

Yet you knew that you were right.

Walter was confused.

I think that I am right.

Do you know that you are right?

His confusion increased.

Now place the staff so that you can see both the white and red, then you
will be right. You are now looking at a bunch of red leaves.

Walter felt chagrined. The flag was moved about five feet and then he
could see it from top to bottom.

You are right now, replied Webb.

But how did you know it wasn’t right? You stood behind the compass, but
did not look through it.

I knew it by that tall pine tree on top of yonder hill. I discovered a
mile back that the tree was exactly in line, and if you will look back,
you will see a dead hemlock tree, with the bark off. By noticing objects
both ahead and behind, you can detect the least variation.

Walter comprehended the explanation.

If I understand you, the needle must set on the figures 45°, W., and
looking forward through the slots, the eye must strike the staff and pine
tree, and looking back, the hemlock tree must be in line exactly.

Right boy. Now move on to the flag and take a new sight.

The compass was set at the next station by Walter, with great care.
Before him, he could see the staff and pine tree, and behind he could see
the dead hemlock.

Well done, boy! exclaimed Webb. You have mastered your first lesson. You
can take charge of the instrument now for the season. We shall run this
course for the next month, then we will go into winter quarters, and you
can go into the books, and by spring, you can take charge of the survey.

Walter’s eyes glistened with satisfaction, both for the praise and
promises of his employer. From this time to the close of the season,
Walter took charge of the work, and gave entire satisfaction to his
employer.

About the first of November, they went on board a flat-boat and floated
down the Delaware. Amy, Walter’s cat, accompanied them. They arrived at
Philadelphia on the fifth day, and immediately proceeded to the residence
of Mr. Webb, where Walter was well received and kindly treated, and
at once commenced his school days, and earnestly studied mathematics,
geometry and trigonometry. He threw his whole soul into his studies, and
worked night and day to solve the difficult problems. Although he was in
a city of fashion, he could not be induced to enter society. His books
and Amy were his only companions.

Thus, the winter passed. In the spring he returned to the Minisink
country to survey.

Thus, four years passed—surveying in the summer, and studying at school
in the winter. During this time he had not only mastered surveying and
civil engineering, but had acquired a knowledge of navigation that
rendered him capable of sailing a ship around the world.

Having now arrived at the age of twenty-one, he was his own master, and
more than that, he was master of himself.

He was now to choose what should be his future course. One great
incentive of his life was to find Amy or her friends. He knew that
her grand-father lived in England. He wished to go there, but how to
accomplish it, he did not know. Like a dutiful child, he asked his old
friend and preceptor, Charles Webb.

Would you like a position on a ship? he asked.

Yes, he replied, if it was one in the line of promotion.

Leave that to me, replied Webb. I will see that you are promoted in the
start. You understand navigation as well as any Captain in the English
Navy, and in a few months you can learn to work a ship. After that all
will be easy. I have a particular friend that is in port now, Captain
Davis, of His Majesty’s Ship, “Reindeer.” I think he would like you. His
wife generally sails with him. His only child was stolen from him twenty
years ago by the Indians, while they were on shore at Kingston, on the
Hudson.

I will follow your advice, said Walter.

Then no time must be lost, as I do not know what moment the ship may
sail. I will request him to call on me this evening, and he hastily wrote
the following note:

“Will Captain Davis honor his old friend by calling this evening. Charles
Webb.”

There! Take that and go down to the dock. There you will find a boat in
charge of an officer. Hand him this letter, and he will deliver it to the
Captain, who is on board the Reindeer, anchored in the stream.

As Walter approached the river, he saw a ship lying at anchor. A curious
feeling came over him. The tall masts, the white sails, the ports in the
sides with bristling cannon projecting.

Is that to be my future home? he thought to himself. Am I to plough the
briny deep? Will that bear me to the grand-father of my Amy?

Bang! went a gun, and a cloud of smoke issued from the ship’s side. A
moment after, a boat left the ship, and was rowed towards the shore.
Walter watched it with interest. When it came in full view, he saw that
four sailors pulled at the oars, dressed in blue uniform. In the stern
sat two men clad in the uniform of English Naval officers, the elder of
which was smoking a cigar. It occurred to him that it was to one of these
men that he was to hand the letter. As soon as the boat landed, the two
officers stepped on the wharf, and the boat pulled out in the stream.
Walter advanced, raising his cap:—

Gentlemen, can you inform me what officer commands the boat that has just
set you two gentlemen on shore?

The two looked at each other as if in doubt, when the younger replied:

This gentleman is Captain.

Not so fast, replied Davis. I am Captain of the ship—you are Captain of
this boat. What can we do for you young man?

Mr. Webb requested me to hand this letter to the officer having charge of
the boat, at the same time presenting the letter.

The younger of the two took it.

Here, Captain, this is for you.

The Captain read it.

Are you acquainted with Mr. Webb young man?

Yes, he replied, in a sweet, mild voice. I have been in his employ for
several years.

How is that? asked the Captain. I have made his house my home for several
years, but I never saw you there.

That was because you were in port during the warm season. At that time I
was in the wilderness surveying for Mr. Webb.

The Captain looked at the young man in astonishment.

What is your name?

Walter Wallace.

Is Mr. Webb at home? Being answered in the affirmative, he said to the
officer at his side:

Send a boat for me to-morrow at eight. Remember we weigh anchor at ebb.

The officer raised his hat to his superior and walked away. Then at a
given signal the boat returned to the shore and the officer stepped on
board.

The Captain stood and looked at his ship as it gently rocked in the swell
of the river.

A beauty! A beauty! Handsomer than the Reindeer it is named after. Do you
return to Webb’s? asked the Captain, addressing Walter.

Yes sir.

Then we will walk along together.

Walter felt awkward. Here he was walking along side of a large, handsome
man, dressed in the rich, glittering uniform of the British Navy. He was
recognized by the passers-by—at least he was saluted by their raising
their hats.

But little had been said in their walk from the river to Webb’s. Arriving
there, Walter entered and seated the Captain in the parlor, while he went
to notify Webb.

Ah, boy, back so soon? I did not think that you would meet the boat until
after the firing of the sun-down gun.

Walter explained how he met the boat as it landed—the delivery of the
letter—that one of the gentlemen that came on the boat had accompanied
him home, and was now in the parlor waiting.

Did you learn his name?

No, but I learned he was the Captain of the ship.

That is Captain Davis himself. To him I expect to trust my ward. You
remain here until I call you.

Then Webb went to the parlor.

Good day Captain, ahead of time, but always welcome.

No, I am just in time. I had to come now or never—at least not until my
return from England.

England! exclaimed Webb, I thought you were going into winter quarters.

So I supposed, but this morning I received orders to sail to-morrow.

Then I have no time to accomplish the object I had in view in sending for
you.

State your object, and if possible, I will help you accomplish it.

I sent for you in relation to the young man you have often heard me speak
of, that I found in the Minisink wilderness.

Is that the young man that handed me the letter?

Yes.

The fellow that killed the panther, and fell in love with the cat?

Precisely. Only the cat is the namesake or representative of the girl he
fell in love with.

Oh, I remember it all, replied Davis. In what way can I assist either you
or him?

I wish to procure a situation for him on your ship.

In what capacity?

I will leave that to you.

Of course that will depend on his qualifications. He could not have
learned any of the duties of a seaman in the wilderness you found him.

Not all the duties, Captain, certainly not. Yet there are many things
that are indispensable to a seaman that has been learned on land—yes even
in the howling wilderness. But we will call him. You can examine him and
then decide.

Walter was waiting on the stoop, when he was addressed by Sambo.

Massa Walt—Massa Webb want you in de parlor. Too bad Walt—too bad. They
are going to take you off in big ship. Sambo never see Walt any more.
Walt get drowned. Walt never come back to see Sambo or cat any more.

I shall take the cat with me, replied Walter.

Dey won’t let you do dat. Mighty ’ticular on ship. Dey kill Amy and throw
her overboard in the sea, an’ if Massa say boo, dey whip him wid a cat
ob nine tails, put irons on his feet and stow him down in de hole wid de
rats.

Have no fears, Sambo, if I go, the cat will go with me. That is a
condition the Captain must agree to before I put my foot on board.

Oh, Massa, promises like pie crust—“made to be broken.” What Massa
do when three hundred miles to sea, two or three hundred to do what
de Captain says—Walt overboard—one man less, dat is all. Walt not
missed—ship sail on. Captain don’t like you now—say you come out of de
woods—don’t know anything. Stay on shore, Massa—stay wid Sambo an’ de
cat. Captain tink you big baby—he say you kill panther and love cat.

Walter started for the parlor in an uneasy state of mind. As simple as
Sambo was, he had succeeded in raising doubts in his mind, as to the
propriety of his going to sea.

Captain Davis, I have the pleasure of introducing to you Walter Wallace,
the boy I have told you so much about.

I am happy to meet and form your acquaintance, young man, and it will not
be my fault if we do not become fast friends.

Walter took his hand timidly and said:

I trust such may be the case.

I learn from Mr. Webb that you would like to ship on board the Reindeer.

Mr. Webb has so advised me.

What position would you prefer?

Any that I am capable of filling, was his prompt reply.

Have you any knowledge of vessels?

None, except what I have learned from the books.

Put the questions to the boy directly, suggested Webb.

That would do if I was examining him for Sailing Master, replied the
Captain, but it is not expected that the young man has studied or knows
anything about navigation.

I am willing to be examined on that point, rejoined Walter.

The Captain was surprised at the cool confidence of the boy, but
proceeded with his examination. He soon found that theoretically, the
young man was perfect. He also learned that book learning was not to be
despised, for Walter was not only master of the principles of navigation,
but could locate almost all the continents, seas and shoals of the world.
He could name the different parts of a ship, and the rigging employed in
sailing it.

That will do for the present, young man. You can retire, and I will talk
over the matter with Mr. Webb.

Walter left the room.

Mr. Webb, this young man is a prodigy. When, how and where did he acquire
this knowledge? I never understood that you were a navigator.

But you forget, Captain, that I am a surveyor and civil engineer, and
that before I could trust him to do my work, I had to know that he
understood the principles, and from surveying to navigation, there is but
one step, and that step he has taken.

But, rejoined Captain Davis, in surveying through the woods, no great
accuracy is required, but at sea, accuracy is required. It is essential
to the safety of the ship. And in case we are driven from our course by
the wind or currents, we must determine our exact latitude and longitude,
otherwise we are lost. And this youngster makes this calculation to a
fraction.

The boy’s precision, said Webb, is owing to his early education. I taught
him, that in surveying, there was no such thing as “good enough,” that
all his work must be done exactly right. In a word, he must know that
he was right. At sea, circumstances over which you have no control,
may drive you from your course. Not so on land. An error there is
carelessness, and often the entire work has to be done over again. But at
sea, you take your bearings and start anew. And it was for these reasons
that I impressed on the young man’s mind the necessity of accuracy.

And the result shows that you have succeeded, replied the Captain. Webb,
I really like the boy, and would like to give him a berth on board of
the Reindeer suitable to his attainments, but you know how it is in the
English Navy. My officers would be struck with horror, to be introduced
to this back woods-man as one of their equals.

That, the young man does not require. Neither would he accept the berth,
replied Webb. What he wants is a place that is in the line of promotion,
and work his way up. Give him that chance, and he will succeed.

There is just where the difficulty lies, replied Davis. The son of some
Count, Countess, Lord or Admiral, having neither brains or attainments,
can pass the Board of Admiralty on the strength of their name, while the
man of worth is rejected as incompetent. I cannot place him before the
mast among that rough element. Neither will I give him a berth among the
marines. I like the boy, and would prefer his society in the cabin. Why I
take such a liking to him, I do not know, unless it is that he puts me in
mind of my own baby boy that was stolen from me years ago.

Is he alive?

Possibly yes—probably no. How I would reverence the man that had
received, reared and educated him as you have done by this child of the
forest. Webb, cannot I adopt him as my son? Cannot I take him in the
place of my own long lost boy? Cannot I be a father to him, as I trust
someone has been to my child? Then I can protect him, and save him from
insult and harm. Yes, that is my plan. I will take him on board as my
guest, if not as my son, and trust the future for the consequences. Call
Mr. Wallace in.

Not so fast Captain, said Webb. If you take the boy, you must take his
incumbrances with him.

Incumbrances? What do you mean?

I mean that he has got a cat that he won’t leave behind—a namesake of a
little girl that he loved in the mountains.

That is all easy, replied the Captain, my wife has three or four in the
cabin now, and she finds much enjoyment in petting them. One more won’t
sink the ship.

Walter stepped into the room with the cat in his arms.

Well, young man, said the Captain, we have settled your case. You and
your cat are to go on board with me, and you are to be the guests of
myself and wife until I can find a proper place for you. How does that
suit you?

You are very kind, Captain to make that offer, but it does not suit me. I
would prefer to be somebody, and have something to do.

I understand your motives, young man, and promise that in a short time
you shall be somebody, as you call it.

That is all right, rejoined Webb. Captain Davis will be a father to you,
and when we meet again, I hope to address you as Lieutenant Wallace.

How would you like to change your name from Wallace to Davis? inquired
Davis.

For what purpose? asked Walter.

That you may appear as my son, and command the respect of all on board.

That would be deception, Captain.

The Captain felt chagrined. He had not learned the real character of the
boy in which he had taken such an interest. He saw at a flash that Walter
did not understand his meaning. He meant the offer as a feeler, to see
if Walter would consent to his adoption and take his name. He scarcely
knew how to extricate himself from the difficulty he had placed himself
in by proposing to Walter to change his name. The words “That would be
deception, Captain,” still rang in his ears, and raised the boy in his
estimation.

Webb noticed the Captain’s embarrassment and went to his relief.

Walter, I think you had better accept the Captain’s proposition.

Which one of them? he asked excitedly. To go on board of the ship, or
change my name?

To go on board the ship as the guest of Captain Davis and wife. Say no
more about the name or position at present Let time determine that.

Father, said Walter addressing Webb, I rely on you in this matter. You
command and I’ll obey.

I command nothing. I merely advise. You are your own master now, and have
a right to choose for yourself. Things have changed since we met on the
Callicoon. Then you was a stripling of a boy, without home, parents or
shelter. But now you are a man, noble, generous and good. Go with Captain
Davis, and be to him what you have been to me—a noble, generous son.

Father! exclaimed Walter passionately, am I to you what your words imply?

Yes, and more. I feel as if you were bone of my bone, and blood of my
blood. You are the only child I ever knew—the only one that ever called
me father.

Tears trickled down Walter’s cheeks, and throwing his arms around Webb’s
neck exclaimed:

Yes, father—more than a father, what I am, what I shall be, I owe to you.
How can I leave you?

Captain Davis had been an interested spectator of the scene of love and
affection that passed between Walter and Webb. The word _father_ had
fallen with significance on his ear. Never had he been addressed by
that endearing name, and he now felt that he would give his ship and
commission to change places with Webb—to have those manly arms embrace
his neck, and hear the endearing word _father_ addressed to him. Rising,
he took Walter by the hand:—

Have no fears, young man, love and serve me as you have my friend Webb,
and what a father can or should do for a son, I will do for you—even to
the command of the Reindeer. Be ready to-morrow at two, when myself and
wife will call for you.

So soon, Captain?

Yes, that is our orders. We sail at ebb to-morrow.

When Captain Davis had left, Walter approached Webb and said:

This is sudden—unexpected, a very sudden change in my affairs.

No more sudden than the killing of the panther—the water spout, and
falling into my hands.

A lucky fall for me, father.

But now you will fall into good hands. Captain Davis is a gentleman, and
already feels interested in you, as if you were his own child, and would
like to have you take his name.

That can never be. My name is Walter Wallace, and ever shall be.

But you must be getting ready to depart. Sambo will assist you in packing
and removing your trunk to the vessel.

Sambo had been an attentive listener to what had passed between the
parties, and looked upon the whole matter with distrust.

Will Massa Webb excuse Sambo? ejaculated the negro.

Walter looked at him in surprise. He had always been a faithful, loyal
servant, and seemed to be dearly attached to Walter.

Certainly, Sambo, if you can give a good reason, said Webb.

Give reason? Yes, Sambo give the goodest of reasons. Ship sail
to-morrow—to-morrow hangman’s day, to-morrow Friday. Bad day—bad
luck—wind blow—ship sink—Massa Walt get drowned—sharks eat him up—Sambo
see young Massa no more. Here the faithful black broke down, and cried
like a child.

Sambo is not to be blamed for his fears. He believed that Friday was an
unlucky day. Nor was his superstitious belief uncommon. Sailors, as a
rule, regarded it as a day to be dreaded, and nothing but the most rigid
discipline would compel them to weigh anchor and leave port on Friday.

Never mind, said Walter, we have been friends too long to quarrel now. I
will pack my own things.

You’ll see, Massa, you’ll see, and bursting into tears, left the room.

That night was a busy and anxious one for Walter. On the morrow he was to
leave his home and friends, and trust himself among strangers, and the
treacherous waters of the Atlantic. The valley of the Hudson, and the
grandeur of the Delaware were to be hid from his view.

His thoughts were on the Callicoon, and the lovely girl that passed from
his sight on the raft. He wished to behold the place once more before he
left his native shore.

Oh, Amy—my baby—boy and manly love—shall I ever see you more? Did the
rolling, rocking, surging waves of the mad Callicoon cast you on some
friendly shore? Have you, like me, found a protector? Are you, like me,
hoping, praying, trusting, that your Walt is alive, and that some day
we shall meet again? Noble, generous girl. It would be treason against
nature and the laws of love to doubt you. Yes dear Amy, you live. I feel
it. Something tells me—I know not what—that you love and pray for me. May
God grant my prayer, that your prayer may be answered, that we may be in
fact, as we are in heart, “twain one flesh.”

Thus did Walter pass his last night on shore, communing with his thoughts
about that which occupied his whole soul.

Promptly at the time appointed, Captain Davis and wife called.

This is Mrs. Davis, my wife, and this is Mr Wallace, the young man that
is to accompany us.

Mrs. Davis extended her hand and said:

I am happy to meet you, Mr. Wallace. I have heard the Captain speak so
much of you, that I fell in love before I saw you.

I am afraid that I shall make the Captain jealous before the voyage is
over.

No danger of that, humorously replied the Captain, at least the love
would be all on one side. Walter’s heart is steeled against feminine
charms and womanly affection. If I am rightly informed, his affections
are bestowed on a female cat.

Walter’s eyes flashed fire. Davis discovered his mistake, and added:

But I am also informed that the cat is a keepsake or namesake of his
boyish love. Well, well. I suppose I used to have some such feelings
toward you, when I was a boy.

Where is this wonderful cat? asked Mrs. Davis.

Here, said Sambo, dropping the cat at her feet. Dis ’ere, be Miss Ame.

Beautiful! lovely! charming! exclaimed Mrs. Davis.

Now, Mrs. Davis, exclaimed the Captain, don’t you fall in love with that
cat: If you do there will be war in the cabin.

And I will be the victor, if there is anything in numbers. I have two or
three now.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

That is the signal for all on board, exclaimed Davis authoritatively.
Now, Mr. Webb, please walk with me. Walter will accompany my wife, and
you, Sambo, escort the cat.

The parties started for the wharf in the order indicated.

As the party left the door, Mrs. Davis took Walter’s arm. This was
embarrassing for him, as he had always held himself aloof of their
company, and what little he had seen of them in society had not favorably
impressed him. In fact, his _Ideal_ of woman was centered on one he had
not seen for years and perhaps he would never see again.

Mrs. Davis attributed his silence to the fact that he was leaving his
home and the scenes of his childhood to go, he knew not where, and for
the purpose of awakening him, said:

Mr. Wallace, you must not feel so sad at this parting. I am sure that you
will be pleased with the ocean voyage, and before we return, you will
have an opportunity to see most of the cities of the world.

That will be interesting, he replied, yet to leave home and friends, to
go forth, I know not where, or scarcely who I go with, is calculated to
make me despondent.

But you do know who you go with. You go with Captain Davis and wife. In
them you will find true friends. I know that I shall love you. Had I
retained my own sweet babe that was stolen from me years ago, he would be
like you, a man. Walter, will you take the place of that boy? Will you
love me? Will you call me mother?

Lady, you neither know yourself nor me. There is a gulf between us. You
belong to the rich, powerful and educated. I belong to the poor. You came
from London, I from the woods. Tell me, Madam, where there is—where there
can be anything in common between us?

Everything, Walter, everything. My boy was stolen by the Indians, and if
he lives, like you, he must be deprived of civilized society. Like you,
he once had a mother to love and caress him. Like you, he has no mother
now. Like you he must depend on strangers. Like you, he may have a deep
seated love in his heart for some person that once existed, but now
exists only in his hopes or imagination. What a consolation it would be
to know that he still lives—that some good, noble woman was acting toward
him the part of a mother. And as I would wish others to do by my boy, so
do I wish to do by you.

Walter was affected by this pleading. He was convinced that Mrs. Davis
knew his history, and his deep, undying love for Amy. He faltered for a
moment only:

Mother, as you wish it, so it shall be.

Bless you, boy, bless you. Now I shall have a child to love, and shall be
loved in return. Oh, Walter, how happy we shall be when we get out on the
broad, blue Atlantic, as there is a young lady going with us—the niece of
the Lord of the Admiralty.

The parties were now approaching the wharf. In the stream lay the
Reindeer, gently rocking at anchor, bedecked with flags.

It was generally known that the ship sailed that day, and the inhabitants
of Philadelphia were generally out to see her depart. As they approached,
they saw that the wharf was lined with people, and that some of them were
engaged in a deadly struggle. The marines were trying to drive on board
a number of sailors that were crazed with rum. Oaths, and imprecations
were to be heard above the splashing water. The sailors refused to leave
port on Friday. Ordinarily their superstition would cause them to demur.
But now, being maddened by rum, they revolted to a man, and acted like
blood-thirsty demons.

Captain Davis was unarmed, but he saw that something must be done
quickly, or the mutineers would clear the wharf and become masters of the
situation.

His Second Lieutenant was trying, in vain, to reason with the men, but
they threatened and derided him.

Captain Davis threw himself among them, and in a stentorian voice cried:

Silence! men! Silence!

We will silence you! said a burly, brutal, drunken sailor drawing his
knife from the sheath and sprang at the Captain, who was neither armed or
prepared to defend himself.

The knife was raised and, about to strike him to the heart, when Walter
sprang forward, and with one well directed blow under the assassin’s ear,
knocked him off the dock, and his body splashed in the water.

Bloody land lubber! exclaimed half-a-dozen voices, as they all rushed
upon him.

Single handed he would have been more than a match for any bully on board
of the Reindeer. But to contend with a dozen armed monsters, whose every
faculty was crazed with rum, rendered his case hopeless. Still he struck
right and left, and with each blow a man fell.

Take that! cried one of the drunken demons, aiming his knife to reach his
heart.

Up to this time, Sambo had been a silent spectator. But now, seeing his
young master in serious danger, he threw himself between them, receiving
the blow in his breast that was intended for his master.

I told you so, Massa Walt, I told you so! and fell dead at his feet.

This added fuel to the flames. Two of the remaining sailors grappled with
him.

Charge! men! Charge! came from a person not before seen.

One of Walter’s antagonists fell, but the other held him by the throat.
Now came the tug of war. The result depended on the strength of muscle.
The fight goes on. They get nearer the dock, both exerting themselves to
throw the other overboard. They both fell, and for a moment are buried in
the briny deep. When they came to the surface, Walter had the sailor by
the throat, holding him off at arm’s length. His face was black, and his
tongue protruded. Walter withdrew his hand, and the sailor sank.

At this moment a boat appeared as if by magic, and Walter was drawn on
board in an unconscious condition.

Thank you, Lieutenant, thank you! exclaimed Captain Davis. But for your
timely arrival we should have all been murdered.

Not at all, Captain. I but did a sailor’s duty. I both saw and heard what
was going on, and ordered a file of marines to your rescue.

Well planned and skillfully executed, said Davis. Now iron these
mutineers, and place them in the cage until they can be lawfully disposed
of.

Order being restored, embarkation commenced. Mrs. Davis sat in the stern,
holding Walter’s head in her lap, while the Captain stood near the
centre, with the cat Amy in his arms.

Arriving on board, the Captain ordered a council of his officers to see
what was their opinion about leaving port that night, and to learn, if
possible, whether this had been a preconcerted mutiny, or whether it was
caused by drinking too much rum.

The First Lieutenant said he would vouch for every man on board. The
mutineers, he said, are safely ironed, and the rest of the men are loyal.

Weigh anchor! said the Captain to his subordinate. To hesitate on these
drunken threats would be tantamount to surrendering my command.

In less time than it takes to write it, the anchor is weighed, the sails
spread, and the Reindeer moves majestically toward the broad Atlantic.

A gentle breeze drove the Reindeer through the rippled water, and just
as the sun was setting behind the western hills, Captain Davis had the
satisfaction of knowing that his ship was safely out to sea.

Yet the Captain felt uneasy. The conduct of the men on shore raised some
suspicion in his mind that trouble was brewing. In his officers he had
perfect confidence.

The night was clear, with just wind enough to fill the sails, and the
Captain and his First Lieutenant were sitting on the quarter-deck,
discussing the events of the day.

By the way, Captain, who was that tall, noble-looking young man, that
faced the whole company of cut-throats, and laid them out right and left,
as a boy would so many marbles?

That is Walter Wallace, the foster child of my friend Charles Webb.

Wallace—that is a familiar name to me. Do you know what branch of the
Wallace family he descended from?

No. Neither do I think he knows himself. Webb found him an orphan, alone,
in the woods, and adopted him in his family. They lived at a place called
Callicoon, not far from the Delaware river. The river overflowed the
banks and drowned all but him.

Powers, for such was the Lieutenant’s name, manifested some feeling at
this revelation, and exclaimed:

Is it possible?

Is what possible? asked the Captain.

Is it possible that I have found my sister’s child?

Sister’s child? exclaimed Davis. How could a sister of yours be living in
such a wilderness?

By following the dictation of her conscience, and the man she loved,
replied the Lieutenant. The story is short and quickly told. A brother
and sister married a brother and sister. William Wallace married my
sister, Amelia Powers, and Thomas Powers, my brother, married Mary
Wallace. For this act they were driven from their home, crossed the
Atlantic, and settled in Connecticut. From there they moved west to a
place called Callicoon. I received several letters from them for several
years, and then all correspondence stopped. I then employed some of the
men that trade in furs to make inquiries about them. They reported that
both families had resided on the Callicoon, but were all dead, having
been washed away and drowned by a water spout at the head of the stream.
The last that we heard of them, Wallace had a son named Walter, and
Powers a daughter named Amy.

You are right, Lieutenant, you must be right. The noble soul that now
lies in my cabin unconscious, is your nephew, your sister’s son.

Then let us hasten to him.

No; not at present. The Surgeon has commanded the strictest silence.

Let me see him, Captain, if it is but for a single moment. Let me see my
wronged sister’s son.

Not for worlds, Lieutenant, not for worlds. That one moment might be
fatal. That one moment might destroy our anticipations of the future.
He is in good hands. My wife and your sister Cora are at his side
administering to his wants.

How came he to be of your party? asked the Lieutenant.

At the request of Mr. Webb, who reared and educated him.

His education must be limited.

No, replied the Captain, not limited, but extended. No man on this ship
is his superior—few his equal.

This will be new and awkward business for the ladies, different from
nursing cats—By the way Captain, I see that you have added another
to the list. The one you brought on board appears to have passed her
three-score-and-ten. Its coat is as white as snow.

That cat, replied the Captain, has a history, and bears the name of your
brother’s daughter, Amy, and Walter would fight for that cat as he would
for the one she is named after, and I had to consent that the cat should
come on board before he would agree to become my guest.

Perhaps that is the boy’s weakness—that in his younger days, he fell in
love with the namesake of this cat.

There is no perhaps about it. It is a fact. Webb informed me, that when
he and Walter were viewing the scene of the destruction of his home,
the cat came to him, and that then and there Walter raised his hand to
heaven, and swore in the presence of his God and his desolate home, that
he would never love other than Amy Powers.

And does that love still burn? asked the Lieutenant.

Yes, replied the Captain, and it is for that reason that he sails with
us. He is in search of Amy or her friends. And he has found the latter.
God grant that he may be as successful in finding the former. Now you
must excuse me, as I must go and look after my charge.



CHAPTER XII.

    Moccasin Tracks in the Sand—Cahoonshee at the Climbing
    Tree—Indian Craft and White Man’s Cunning. Cahoonshee at the
    Stake—Quick to the Rescue.


We left Amy and Drake at the house of the elder Quick, on the banks of
the river at Milford. They now understood themselves and each other. By
degrees Amy’s sadness wore away, and she became lively and cheerful.
When an opportunity offered, she went with Drake on hunting and fishing
excursions, and learned to use the rifle with the dexterity of an old
hunter. Like most of her sex, she was fond of dress, and chose the most
gaudy colors for her attire.

The trapping season had now arrived, and the parties went back to the
Shinglekill.

Cahoonshee and Quick had not met for several months.

I fear, said Cahoonshee, that there will be trouble between our
neighbors, the Delawares, and the Salamanques.

Why? asked Quick.

I saw on the banks of the Mongaup, to-day, the print of a moccasin that
plainly told me what tribe they belonged to.

Sly dogs, those Salamanques. They wiped out the Cahoonshees, replied
Quick.

And we must assist the Delawares to wipe them out now.

How?

Find out what they intend to do, and then act accordingly. I think their
advance lie concealed in the bowl. (A hollow on the Pennsylvania side of
the river opposite Mongaup.)

Follow me, and we will soon know.

The parties threw their guns over their shoulders, and started for the
Hawk Nest.

Seating themselves on the pinnacle, Cahoonshee pointed up the river.

Does my brother see that tall pine standing on the edge of the rocks,
with dead limbs in the top? A few feet from the top of that tree is the
bowl. In that bowl lie concealed the destroyers of my race. Brother, do
you see the smothered smoke that arises from their Council fires? I must
hear their plans.

Yes, and lose your life in the adventure, said Quick.

Possibly yes—probably no. But they must be circumvented. Follow me.

They both started down the rocks, and reaching the river, stepped into a
canoe, and paddled for the Climbing Tree. (See Appendix.)

[Illustration: CLIMBING TREE]

It was now dark. Quick paddled the canoe through the still waters of Long
Track, through Butler’s Falls, and entered Mongaup Eddy, and continued
until they were opposite the Climbing Tree.

Not a word had been spoken. Cahoonshee stepped out of the canoe, and as
he did so whispered in his companion’s ear:

Watch, and remain silent! and then disappeared in the impenetrable
darkness.

Cahoonshee climbed the tree and came in full view of the Salamanques.
They had gathered there in large numbers, and had with them their squaws
and papooses. The fire at which the Chiefs sat was within a few feet of
where Cahoonshee stood, and he could hear what they said as easily as if
he had sat in their midst. It was mid-night when the Council broke up.
Cahoonshee returned to the river.

Don’t use a paddle. Let the canoe float. These rocks have ears.

Not a word was spoken. Cahoonshee sat with his head in his hands,
thinking of the past and meditating on the future.

Brother, said Cahoonshee, a plot is laid to destroy the Delawares. If the
Salamanques succeed, there will not be one left to tell the tale. But it
must not be. The white man’s reason and the red man’s cunning must thwart
their plans.

And have you a plan?

I have one that will wipe the Salamanques from the face of the earth.

Can I assist you brother?

Yes. Day after to-morrow the blow is to be struck. The Delawares must be
notified and prepared, not only to defend themselves, but to annihilate
their foes. To-night I will visit the Delawares. To-morrow, you and the
boys go to the round, white rock on Mount William. Carry with you all the
strings that you can make from bear, deer and eel skins. Prepare a large
quantity of pine knots, and I will meet you there at sun-down to-morrow.

Cahoonshee stepped into his canoe and noiselessly drifted down the river,
and just as the silver streak of morning began to appear, he landed at
the village of the Delawares, at the angle of the Neversink and Delaware
rivers.

He immediately proceeded to the wigwam of the Chief. Early as it was, the
Chief was up, and sat at the door smoking. Hawk Eye, for such was the
Chief’s name, heard a rustling in the bushes, and looking up, saw the
towering form of Cahoonshee approaching.

Good morning, brother; I knew that you were coming.

How knew you that? But one knew of my visit here, and he did not know my
motive.

Say not so, my brother. The Great Spirit knows all, and He tells Hawk Eye
in a dream.

What did the Great Spirit say?

The Great Spirit tell me in a dream that Cahoonshee had a revelation for
me, and I arose early to meet you.

It is well. I am here with news, not from Heaven, but from the
Salamanques.

May the Great Spirit protect us then. We can die like our fathers!
exclaimed Hawk Eye.

Yes, and fight like your fathers, rejoined Cahoonshee.

Hawk Eye cast his eyes to the ground and meditated for a moment and said:

We are feeble and count by the hundred. They are strong and count by the
thousand. What the Cahoonshees now are we soon will be.

What mean you, brother?

I mean, replied the Chief, that the Cahoonshees once lived on these
lands, hunted through these hills and fished in these streams. Not so
now. Their bodies lie in the earth. Their scalps dangle in the lodges of
the Salamanques. One, and only one, is left.

Will the Delawares act like squaws and let the Salamanques take their
scalps?

If it is the will of the Great Spirit.

It is not the will of the Great Spirit.

Has Cahoonshee a sign?

Yes, and you shall see it.

When, and where? brother.

To-morrow, replied Cahoonshee. When you hear the first war-whoop, look
to the north-west, and you will see a ball of fire fall from Heaven and
strike the earth, and run from Mount William to the Delaware river. That
is the sign. The Great Spirit has decreed it. To-morrow Cahoonshee will
have his revenge. To-morrow the Salamanques go on the war-path for the
last time. To-morrow the rivers will run with blood. Hear me Hawk Eye!
The Salamanques are in every ambush between here and Lackawaxen. They are
well prepared with canoes and rafts. At the rise of the moon to-night
they will float down the river. Their main force will land at the brook
just above you. Their younger braves will pass by and return up the
Mahackamack (Neversink) to your rear. Those at the brook will set the
woods on fire on the south side of the brook, and as the smoke is seen
to rise above the trees, the warriors on the Neversink will rush on your
village.

Not one of us can escape, mournfully exclaimed Hawk Eye.

You shall all escape. But the Salamanques shall roast in their own fire.

Cahoonshee wise. Learned from the white man. Tell Hawk Eye what to do?

That is what I am here for. Send the women, children and aged to the
Holicot Glen, above Peanpack. Send a part of your forces on the east
side of the Neversink, and the rest of them on the west side of the
Delaware. When the ball of fire I have spoken of shall roll along from
Mount William to the river, then let your braves advance. The Salamanques
cannot escape. They will be between two fires, one on their east, and one
on their west. Then let your braves advance. They will be between two
fires, and your braves in their front.

It shall be as you say, replied Hawk Eye.

’Tis well. Watch for the ball of fire! and Cahoonshee passed out of sight.

At this time the angle of land lying between the Delaware and Neversink
rivers on which the City of Port Jervis now stands was one tangled
forest, in the centre of which was located the camping grounds of the
Delawares. The banks of the river were studded with lofty white pine
trees, whose tops reached far toward the Heavens. On the south side of
the brook, the majestic willow towered Heavenward, with their branches
bending to and taken root in the earth. Through these willows the wild
grape vine had twined and laced itself, its creeping branches forming a
barrier to man and beast, but fuel for the elements.

The Delawares had moved their effects, women and children to the Holicot
Glen, and placed their forces on the opposite side of the two rivers,
retaining sufficient numbers at their forsaken village to keep the camp
fires blazing through the night.

In the meantime, the Salamanques had marshalled their forces, and when
the earth became enshrouded in the mantle of night, they embarked on
board of canoes and rafts and silently floated down the river, and before
the break of day had safely landed north of the Spring Brook, with their
women and children. A part of their warriors went by the way of the
Tri-States Rock, then up the Neversink, as they supposed, in the rear of
the Delawares.

When Cahoonshee left Hawk Eye, he went immediately to the white rock, at
Mount William. There he found Drake, the two Quick and Rolla. They had
prepared a large quantity of pine knots, and the preparation for the ball
of fire was commenced. The white rock lay on a flat stone, requiring but
little effort to move it. Around this stone, pine knots were securely
bound, with strings cut from deer and bear skins.

Such was the preparation and situation of the contending parties on the
morning of the memorable Battle of the Neversink. The sun rose over the
eastern hills in all its glory. The wind blew from the north-west, as if
to aid the Salamanques in the work of death. The torch is applied to the
thick underbrush at the brook. The smoke rises above the tree tops. The
war-whoop is sounded on the Neversink, and the Indian braves rush forward
in their anticipated work of slaughter.

I have my revenge! exclaimed Cahoonshee, jumping on the lever that
started the rock.

From rock to rock—from cliff to cliff, the fiery mass descended, tearing
its way through the wood, brush and trees, throwing off its death dealing
fire, and landed in the cool waters of the Delaware. In its trail, flames
burst forth that ascended to the tree tops.

The Salamanques were enclosed on two sides by fire, and cut off from
retreat by the Neversink and Delaware rivers on the other side. Then
a rush is made for the river, but the Delawares have their ambush on
the Pennsylvania side, and by a deadly fire, drive them back. Then a
rush is made for the Pine Grove, thinking there was safety in climbing
to the uppermost boughs. Men, women and children uttering oaths and
imprecations, dash forward. Deep into the lurid waves of fire made by the
whirl of glowing smoke, they rushed madly on—tearing at each other like
wild beasts, and smothering their yells beneath the luminous element.

The poor wretches who were to die sought the darkest spots; and hid
behind clumps of stone, stumps and bushes, or crept under torn masses
of wild vines, panting with terror and dread, and trying to hold the
very breath that threatened to destroy them. The Pine Grove is reached.
Madly they climb to the highest bough. The aged warrior ascends with the
agility of youth. The mother with her babe lashed to her back, and the
youth springing from bough to bough, like squirrels. Thus, they spring
from bough to bough, until the trees are loaded down with human freight.

But the fire rolls on. The cracking of brush—the yells of the victims,
and the fall of the timber, creates a smothering, rolling, thundering
sound. The fire leaps from bush to bush—from tree to tree, until the Pine
Grove is reached. Rosin on the trees take fire, and a sheet of flame
reaches the upmost bough. The very elements are on fire. One by one they
drop into the surging flames below—roasted, blackened, withered corpses.

Their friends on the Neversink fare no better. When the smoke was seen
above the tree tops, they advanced, thinking to drive the Delawares back
into the fire, or mercilessly dispatch them with the tomahawk. But they
found no enemy. And while they were wondering what had become of them,
they saw a ball of fire pass like a dart of lightning from heaven to
earth, and heard the shrieks of their friends in the midst of it. Then
confusion and disorder ensued, and they retreated back to the Neversink.

As they reached the river, they were met by the Delawares, who received
them with a deadly fire, which caused many of them to bite the earth.

But the fire was upon them. It was either drown or burn. They choose the
former, and rushed for the river. This became their burial place, and
their bodies became food for the fishes.

As they poured over the bank, the cool and collected Delawares dispatched
them with the tomahawk and scalping knife, and the crystal waters of the
Neversink were colored with blood.

The victory was complete. Nearly all that had so silently floated down
the river the night before, were now locked in the cold embrace of
death, and as the sun set in the western horizon, and the earth became
enshrouded in the mantle of night, death reigned in silence.

While the conflagration was going on, and while the flames, like forked
arrows were hissing through the branches of the trees, and amid the
groans of the wounded, burning and dying, which could be heard above
the crackling of the falling wood, the tall, erect form of Cahoonshee
appeared in the front ground, on the highest pinnacle of Point Peter,
with Rolla standing by his side. Feelings of satisfaction and regret
occupied his mind. Satisfaction that the murderers of his fathers were
punished. Regret that the white man would seize upon this opportunity to
appropriate the land to themselves.

The smoke lifted for a moment, and looking toward Mount William, he saw
the forms of five dusky Salamanques crouching in the brush.

It is finished, he said. My time has come. But I will not die by the
hands of the Salamanques. I will throw myself from these rocks, and be
buried by my friends, the Delawares.

You die by the fagot—not by the fall! exclaimed a voice behind him.

Turning, he saw three tomahawks raised. To advance or retreat was
impossible.

I am yours, exclaimed Cahoonshee. Do your pleasure.

It is no pleasure to kill a dog—a coward!

Coward! ejaculated Cahoonshee.

Yes—a faint hearted woman, afraid to meet death like your fathers. You
were about to meet death by throwing yourself from the rocks to save
being tortured by fire.

Cahoonshee keenly felt the reproach.

I rely on the Great Spirit, he said. If it is His will the fire will not
burn.

Did the Great Spirit kindle the fire that roasted my people?

Yes, through my agency he sent fire from the skies and consumed the
Salamanques. Do your worst. I have had my revenge. Years ago you
destroyed my tribe. Their bodies lay mouldering in yonder hill, and their
scalps hang in your lodges. I alone am left. Many suns have I seen rise.

You will see it rise but once more. At sun rise to-morrow, the Skull Rock
will be lit up, and Cahoonshee will die a coward at the stake.

Cahoonshee remained silent.

Is the great warrior dumb? asked the Chief.

Yes, when he talks to the Great Spirit. And stooping down, he picked up a
piece of slate stone and wrote upon it:

“Prisoner. To be burned at the stake at sun-rise to-morrow at Skull Rock.”

Take this (addressing the dog) to your Master.

The dog seized it and bounded down the rocks.

See, said the Chief, the dog is ashamed of the cowardly spirit of his
Master.

Cahoonshee’s hands were then tied behind him, and the march to Skull Rock
commenced. Their course was north-west until they reached Mongaup. Then
over the ridge to Fish Cabin Brook. Then up the cliff to Skull Rock.

This was the place where for years the Indians had tortured their
prisoners by burning them at the stake, and skulls were frequently found
on the ground. It was a high pinnacle rising several hundred feet above
the water of the Delaware, and the rocks hanging over the river. (See
Appendix.)

The Quicks and Drake, as soon as the fire ball started, returned to their
cabin on the Shinglekill, and viewed from the distance the fire and smoke
that ascended above the battle-field on the Neversink.

The sun had just set when Rolla came bounding in and dropped a stone at
Drake’s feet, and then whined as if in distress.

The dog means something, said the elder Quick.

In the meantime Drake had picked up the slate and was trying to decipher
the marks on it.

Here is something about the Skull Rock, but that is all I can make out.

That means that Cahoonshee is in trouble—perhaps a prisoner. Dry the
stone and you can read it better.

Drake held the stone to the fire, and then read: “Prisoner. To be burned
at the stake at sunrise, to-morrow at Skull Rock.”

Our friend is doomed, exclaimed Drake, can we do anything to free him?

That depends on how many Indians there are with him. We saw several
hundred go down the river but none have returned. If they go to the rock
in force we cannot help him. But they usually take but six or eight on
such occasions, and with my knowledge of the ground and the under ground
approach, I think we could rescue him.

Let us try, said Tom. I will take my chances. There is an under ground
approach to that place, known only to Cahoonshee and myself, said the
elder Quick. It will be several hours before sunrise and we have time to
get there and make our arrangements. Put new flints in your guns and fill
the knapsacks with provisions and ammunition.

It was now late in the evening. The night was clear, with full moon as
the parties started on their errand of mercy. They had about six miles
to travel to reach their destination. Their course lay along the north
bank of the river until they reached the foot of the cliff. Reaching that
point, Quick admonished the boys to be careful, as the least misstep
would throw them down the rocks. The ascent was almost perpendicular.
They climbed up rock after rock by clinging to the roots until they had
ascended two thirds of the mountain. Here was a projecting table rock on
which had grown a massive birch tree. And, under this was a fissure in
the rock that led to the top. The entrance to this fissure was directly
behind the birch tree, and was so small that it was difficult for a man
to creep through. From this point to the top there was a sudden rise of
five or six feet, which was about one hundred feet from the tree where
the victim was to be bound. Up through this narrow gulch the party
proceeded until the top is reached, the elder Quick taking the lead and
Rolla bringing up the rear. Daylight was just appearing, but it would be
an hour more before sunrise, and this left them time to perfect their
arrangements. This was, that each man should pick out his man and fire at
the same time. Then the two Quicks should rush out with their knives and
release Cahoonshee, leaving Drake and Rolla free to rush on the enemy.
A sharp lookout is kept in the direction that the enemy is expected. At
last their gaze was rewarded, nearly a half a mile off five Indians were
seen approaching with Cahoonshee in their midst. When within five hundred
feet, one of the Indians advanced and minutely examined the ground. Not
seeing anything to excite his suspicion, he signaled the rest of the
party and they advanced.

Cahoonshee was tied to a tree and wood piled around him, when the
chief addressed him:—Thus dies the white man’s friend, once the great
Cahoonshee, now a lying dog, a craven coward. Now call on the white man’s
God. Now see if he will save you.

Coward I may be, but liar I am not; I told the Delawares the truth and
they believed me.

What did you tell Delaware dogs?

I told them of your plan to destroy them. With all your cunning I heard
your plans at the climbing tree. You destroyed my Fathers, I helped
destroy your Nation. Do your worst, Salamanque; do your worst, you
may have my scalp to take to your village in the place of a thousand
warriors, now smoking in yonder fire. Cahoonshee has had his revenge.
Kindle your fire. Roast me alive. Ha! Ha! Ha!

The exasperated chief ordered the fire kindled. At that instant, Drake
gave the imitation of the tree toad, and three guns belched forth, and
three dusky Indians bit the earth in death. At the same instant, the two
Quicks sprang forward to release Cahoonshee. Rolla went for the fourth
Indian and soon had him by the throat. Drake made for the remaining one
with his knife. At the discharge of the guns the survivor seized his bow
and arrows and drew it on Drake. But Drake was so close to him that the
arrow flew over his head. But in so doing, he lost his knife. Then they
grappled in deadly combat and struggled toward the precipice that yawned
several hundred feet beneath them, each one exerting himself might and
main to throw the other over and save himself. The brink is reached, and
Drake hurled the Indian off, but his own momentum carried him off, and
they both disappeared in the abyss below.

Saved, exclaimed Tom as he sundered the last thong that bound Cahoonshee.

Yes, but at a fearful cost. A young life has gone out to save an old
wreck that nature will soon remove.

What mean you, Cahoonshee?

I mean that Drake has gone to the spirits-land. Did you not see him leap
from the cliff and follow the Indian in his downward flight?

So sudden had been the charge, and exciting the contest that the Quicks
had failed to see the fearful leap that Drake and the Indian had taken,
and for the moment were speechless.

There, said Cahoonshee, pointing to the highest point of the cliff, there
is where they went down and, now lays a mangled corpse at the bottom. But
we must find the body.

Just then Rolla set up a howl that echoed up and down the valley.

That means something, exclaimed Cahoonshee, go and see what the dog is
making such a noise about.

Tom crawled to the edge of the precipice and looked over. Some hundred
feet down he saw a dark object in a large birch tree.

What do you see, asked the elder Quick.

A man, replied Tom, but whether it is Drake or the Indian I cannot tell.

It is Drake, exclaimed Cahoonshee. The dog would have remained silent if
it had been the Indian. Speak, and see if he will answer you.

Just then Drake’s voice was heard deep down the mountain.

Hello, Drake, is that you?

Yes.

Are you hurt?

No, but I am wedged in the crotch of the tree and can’t get out.

Tom, tell him to remain quiet a few minutes and we will help him out,
said Cahoonshee.

Quick and Cahoonshee trimmed up a grape vine and lowered it down to
Drake. He tied it around his body and by the united strength of those on
the cliff, Drake was hauled to the top.

[Illustration: RESCUE OF DRAKE AT SKULL ROCK.]

Bravo boy! Bravo boy! exclaimed Cahoonshee, the great spirit is on your
side.

That may be, replied Drake, but if it had not been for you and the
grape-vine, I think I should have hung there until the crows had picked
my bones.

Say not that, said Cahoonshee, it was God’s plan to save you. He gave
instinct to the dog to smell you out. He gave growth and strength to the
vine to pull you up. And to us the common instincts of humanity to save
you.

But we must be going. We are not beyond danger yet. Let us return to the
Shinglekill and make arrangements for the future.

And leave the Indians unburied? said Drake.

Yes, leave them as they would have left us—for the wild beasts to pick
their bones. See, the vultures have already scented their carcases.

[Illustration: CAHOONSHEE AND HAWK EYE PLANNING THE DESTRUCTION OF THE
SALAMANQUES.]

The parties then wound their way down the rocks to the river, and from
there down the north back to the cabin on the Shinglekill. Cahoonshee
seemed to be down cast and despondent, sitting alone under the butternut
trees, with his body bent forward and his head clasped in his hands.
Drake watched him for some time, but was unable to discover his trouble,
when the words he heard him speak at the Skull Rock came to his mind—

“We are not out of danger yet!”

What troubles Cahoonshee? Is it the danger you spoke of at the Skull Rock?

Yes, in part. There is still danger of the Salamanques. They will hunt
me down. But there is another danger that threatens the lives of all
the white people between the Hudson and Delaware Rivers. I cannot tell
when the blow will be struck. It may be a month—it may be years. The
Indians feel their wrongs deeply. They see the whites increase and the
Indians diminish. They know that by falsehood and intrigue they have been
deprived of their land. They see from the Hudson on the east, to the
Delaware on west, and to Kingston on the north, the white man has taken
possession of the land and the Indian is being driven west. Both banks of
the Delaware from Milford to the Neversink are now dotted with the white
man’s house, and the lodge of the Indian has passed away. The Neversink
valley and the Peanpack flats are occupied by Hollanders and French, and
their cry is “Indian, go West.” The spirit of the Indian is broken, but
their religion remains the same. Revenge is a part of their religion.
Revenge they have resolved on, and a terrible revenge it will be. Before
many moons have passed a general uprising will take place from the Hudson
to the Lakes. Men, women and children will be killed and scalped, their
houses and barns burned, their property destroyed, their homes made
desolate, and all will be desolation and death. The Indian will have his
revenge and go west. The white man will follow. The Indian will turn
again, and the ravages of Indian warfare will be repeated.

And thus, for generation after generation, the war of races will go on
until the last red man is driven over the western slope and their bones
are buried in the Pacific. It is nature’s decree. The Indian must go. The
places that know them now, will soon know them no more forever.

To me and my people it will make no difference. They are gone and I
must follow them soon. I have but one wish to gratify. Let that wish be
gratified, and I can resign myself to the keeping of the great “I Am.”

Here Cahoonshee bowed his head again and remained silent.

What is it you wish to accomplish that seems to be as dear to you as life
itself? asked Drake.

I wish to find your parents. That accomplished, I can die with pleasure.
Drake, you have now arrived at the age of manhood, and unlike Tom, you
have employed your time in improving your mind. There are but few in
these colonies who are better qualified than you to enter upon active
life. You have been a dutiful son to me, and I have tried to be to you a
kind father. In the course of nature we must soon part, I to lay myself
down, you to enter upon the active duties of life. I have therefore
resolved to go in search of your parents and take you with me. We must
prepare at once, and day after to-morrow we must bid good-bye to the
Shinglekill and our friends. We will go first to Kingston, and then down
the Hudson to Manhattan. At one of these places I think that we will get
information that will lead us to find your father.

What reason have you for thinking that my father is to be found there?
asked Drake.

The mark on your breast is my guide. Undoubtedly the letters “C. D.”
represent your name. But whether it is Drake, Davis or Daniels, I don’t
know. The letters “E. N.” I am satisfied stands for English Navy.
Therefore, I expect to learn some thing about your father by inquiring on
board of the English war-ships.

But you have never said anything about this before.

I had my reason for that, and in time you will appreciate them. To-morrow
we must take up the bee tree, and the next day start on our journey.

Drake was at a loss to understand why Cahoonshee had come to such
a sudden conclusion. He could readily see why he should fear the
Salamanques, but he had not discovered anything to lead him to think
that there would be trouble between the whites and the Indians. Yet he
placed implicit confidence in what Cahoonshee said, and intended to
follow his advice. Yet to leave the Delaware Valley, and above all, to
leave Amy, cost him a pang.

That night it was arranged that the next day they would go and take up
the bee tree, and then the Quicks and Amy should return to the Milford
farm, and Cahoonshee and Drake should start for Kingston.



CHAPTER XIII.

    The Dead Shot—The Bee Tree—Amy a Prisoner in the Hands of the
    Indians—Drake and Rolla in Pursuit—A View of the Hudson.


That night Drake and Amy had a long and confidential talk. The next
morning, the party, accompanied by Rolla, started for the tree, which was
standing at the junction of the Steneykill and Shinglekill.

As they approached the banks of the Steneykill, Rolla placed his nose to
the ground, barked and ran in the woods. Cahoonshee cast his eyes to the
ground.

What track is that? pointing to an indenture in the ground. My eyes begin
to fail me.

That is the print of a moccasin, said Drake.

Is it a Salamanque? ejaculated Cahoonshee.

I think not, said Quick. It is a new track to me. It is neither
Salamanque or Delaware. Here, Drake, look at it with your young eyes.

Drake got down on his knees and examined it for several minutes. Then
rising, called Rolla.

Cahoonshee, said Drake, did you ever see the print of a moccasin worn by
a Stockbridge? If my memory serves me right, the print was made by one
of the tribe that stole me from my parents. For what purpose are they in
these parts?

Cahoonshee then examined the tracks.

It is many years since I have seen a Stockbridge or their tracks, but I
think Drake is right. You fell the tree, and Rolla and I will follow the
trail and learn their number. You, Quick, go to the top of the bluff and
keep a good lookout for the enemy, for such I take them to be. You boys
plug the hole and chop the tree down.

Tom climbed the tree, carrying with him a quantity of moss dipped in tar,
and plastered it over the hole, thus effectively preventing the bees from
coming out. Then returning to the ground, he and Drake went vigorously to
work to chop the tree down.

About this time Cahoonshee returned and reported that there were five
Indians in the party, and were going towards the Mongaup.

The party now proceeded to smother the bees, by smoking them with
brimstone. This was soon accomplished, and several pails were filled with
honey, then the party started to return.

As they were crossing the Shinglekill about half a mile from the cabin,
Rolla gave three loud barks and jumped towards Drake.

That is the bark the dog always gives when he sees or hears Amy, said Tom.

And here, said Drake, is the moccasin track again. I fear that this
forbodes trouble for those we left in the cabin.

Look to the priming in your guns, and be quick. There is no time to lose,
said Cahoonshee.

This was a dark and adventurous day for Amy. When the party left in the
morning, she began to realize how lonesome she would be without Drake.
Although she claimed that Walter Wallace owned her whole heart, and none
but him should ever call her wife, yet to part from Drake, even for a
short time, gave her pain. She began to doubt her constancy for Walter,
and admitted to herself that Drake occupied a small corner of her heart.
Yet she was determined to be cheerful, and that the parting between her
and Drake should be of an affectionate character. To that end, she put on
her blue flannel dress, decked herself with flowers, braided her long,
flowing hair, over which she placed her gypsy hat, and took a chair
beside Betsy to await their return. She had hardly seated herself, when
she heard the squirrels chattering in the butternut trees in front of the
cabin.

I am going to shoot one of those squirrels, she said to Betsy.

Oh no, child, don’t hurt them.

I won’t hurt them, aunty, I will kill them so quick that they won’t
feel it; and taking her gun, stepped out of doors. There were several
squirrels in the tree, but she chose the highest. At the report of the
gun, the squirrel’s head dropped to the ground, but the body remained
in the tree. She felt proud of the shot, and darted up the tree. When
she had nearly reached the top, her attention was drawn to the woods on
the north bank, and nearly in line with her mother’s grave. There lay,
crouched in the bushes, five Indians in full war dress. She thought that
this meant mischief, but how to avert it she did not know. She first
determined to load her gun, and shoot the first one that approached her.
Then she thought that this would enrage the Indians, and they would kill
and scalp both her and Betsy. Then she thought that perhaps they meant no
harm, and had come only to get something to eat.

Oh! how I wish Drake and Cahoonshee were here. Perhaps they will carry
me off, and who can find me? Drake will if possible. And picking up a
piece of charcoal, wrote on the door what she had seen and what she
feared, describing the Indians, their dress paint and feathers. She had
just finished the writing, when the Indians came in the door. The leader
advanced and said:

Pretty squaw—good shot—bring squirrel’s head down—leave body in tree.
Make me good squaw—shoot my deer—cook my corn.

Amy, although she understood every word he said, pretended she could not
understand him, and made signs to that effect.

Time is precious, said one in the rear. Cahoonshee will soon be upon us.

This convinced Amy that the Indians knew that the men were not at home
and might soon return. If she could detain them, perhaps Drake would
arrive. She offered them something to eat. This was refused. Then the
Indian that first approached her, drew from his belt some deer-skin
strings. Amy read her doom. She was to be bound and carried off. As
resistance was useless, she came to the conclusion to quietly submit.

She then made gestures that she would go with them without tying, but the
wily savages would not permit that, but tying a thong around her neck,
ordered her to march.

Betsy had been a silent and interested spectator of the scene that had
passed before her. Amy had informed her in Dutch what she supposed the
Indians intended to do with her.

Tell Drake that I am going to Kingston ahead of him, that I have been
taken by the Indians—the same tribe that stole him when he was a babe.

Here she was cut short and forced from the house. The Indians gagged and
tied Betsy fast to her chair and left her.

Their course was north-west, and Amy resolved to go willingly and escape
at the first opportunity. The Indians said but little, but that little
she understood perfectly, and soon learned the object of the Indians’
visit to that section. It was not to capture her, but Drake. That a ship
was at Kingston, and they wanted Drake to sell to the Captain, that the
young brave at her side was a son of the Chief of the tribe, that he saw
her when she came out of the house, dressed like a queen, with the gun in
her hand. He saw her aim at the squirrel and the head fall. He saw her
climb the tree with the agility of a squirrel, and resolved to take her
to his tribe and make her his wife—the queen of his lodge.

Amy was satisfied that her friends would pursue and rescue her if
possible. She understood the instinct of the dog, and knew that Rolla
would find their trail and follow it.

The Indians moved with all possible speed, but Amy was equal to the
emergency. They crossed the ridge about half a mile north of Hawk’s Nest,
and bent their way towards Mongaup River. It was dark when they reached
the River, and here, for the first time, the Indians changed their
tactics, and endeavored to hide their trail. Two of the Indians took hold
of Amy’s hand, one on each side, and stepped in the cool waters of the
Mongaup, and started up stream.

Amy was well acquainted with all the rivers and streams, having
accompanied Tom and Drake on their fishing excursions after the speckled
trout, in which the river abounded, but the forest was so dense and the
night so dark that she could not locate the spot. After wading through
the water for about two hours, they turned into a gulch of the mountains
through which a small stream flowed, the Indians being particular
that every step should be in the water, so as to leave no trail. In
their ascent, they were required to climb over falls five and six feet
in height. Thus they traveled in total darkness for an hour, when a
familiar sound struck Amy’s ear. She heard the roaring water and surging
cataract. She knew the sound and could locate the place as easily as
she could by daylight. It was Bushkill Falls, a narrow, deep glen, with
rocks ascending on both sides several hundred feet high. The Falls are in
sections, and drop about two hundred feet. The largest, at the bottom,
is forty feet, and drops into a basin below. It is seventy-five feet
in diameter, and is alive with trout. To the right of the basin is the
much dreaded snake den—the largest ever known. Here, at any time between
May and November, the rattler and copperhead are to be found, in May
when they go out, and November when they go in, and can be counted by
the hundreds. All kinds of snakes burrow together in harmony during the
winter. The green snake of twelve inches and the blacksnake of twelve
feet lie side by side, locked in the cold embrace of frost.

At the foot of the Falls, and at the margin of the basin, the Indians
encamped. The outlet of this basin was by two small streams. By removing
a few stones on one side, and making a small dam on the other side, one
of the brooks is dried up. The Indians did this and caught a number of
large trout. Then they rubbed two ash sticks together and started a fire,
and roasted the fish.

Thus, Amy partook of her first meal in captivity. During the eating of
the meal, a conversation was carried on between two of the Indians, in
which she learned that she was to be carried to a cave on the east side
of the Hudson, and detained there until she consented to become his wife.
She immediately came to the conclusion that this was the same cave that
Drake was imprisoned in when a child. How could she communicate this fact
to Drake? She was reclining on her side on a large flat rock. Taking a
small stone, she noiselessly wrote on the flat stone:

“Going to the cave from whence you came. Amy.”

Then the march was resumed up the Falls and almost in sight of
Cahoonshee’s cabin. Then up the Steneykill and over Handy Hill to the
Neversink River.

It is not our intention to describe the route or the incidents that took
place on their way to Kingston. Suffice it to say that Amy was treated
with respect by the one who expected to make her his wife.

But two incidents occurred worthy of notice on their march. On the day
before they reached the Hudson, they were traveling on a trail that
appeared to be much used. The Chief was ahead and Amy forty or fifty feet
behind him, and the rest of the party were two or three hundred feet
behind her, when apparently from the highest tree, the shrill voice of
the tree toad was heard. Amy raised her eyes to the tree and thought to
herself:

“That is Drake’s imitation of the tree toad. But if it is, I shall hear
the blue jay scream.” And without slackening her pace, passed on.

Just after the rest of the column had passed, the familiar sound of the
blue jay was heard. By this Amy knew that her friends were near. But how
they could extricate her, she could not see, and hoped that Drake would
put it off until after she had reached the cave.

They did not travel on the direct trail, but kept west on the ridge, and
whenever they came to a stream of water, traveled in that, so as to leave
no trail.

In the middle of the afternoon, from the top of a high mountain, the
Hudson River came into view, and in the centre lay one of the large ships
that Amy had heard Cahoonshee often describe.

Here Amy and her Indian lover were left. The rest went on to the river
to steal a canoe or build a raft, on which to cross the river. They
soon found a canoe large enough to carry them all over and three of the
Indians carried it to the place agreed upon to meet, and the fourth one
walked toward Kingston Point.

It was now dark, but full moon, and objects could be plainly seen. He
soon reached a large stone house. Approaching cautiously, he discovered
a large number of people in and about it. Men in uniform, and ladies
dressed in the most costly fashion. The loud, shrill notes of the fiddle
sounded upon the air, and nimble feet kept time to the music. He stood
screened behind a grape arbor that was loaded down with the precious
fruit, when suddenly a female figure appeared. At first, the Indian
crouched in terror. The spirit of their captive, Amy stood before him.
Could two persons be just alike? He thought not. Yet there was the same
form, figure, eyes and hair.

She must have escaped. I’ll retake her, then she will be mine.

He approached her as silent as a cat, threw his blanket over her head,
clasped her mouth with his hand and bore her away unobserved and laid her
apparently lifeless form in the canoe.

In a few minutes, Amy and her Indian captor arrived and took seats in the
canoe and started on their journey across the Hudson, where we must leave
them for the present, and return to Walter Wallace.



CHAPTER XIV.

    Restored to Reason—Cora, the Rough Diamond—Saw a Ghost—A
    Temperance Lecture—Found, Two Grand-Fathers.


We left the hero of our tale lying unconscious in the cabin of the
Reindeer, which is now far out to sea. Lieutenant Powers had passed a
sleepless night. The history of Walter Wallace, as related by Captain
Davis, convinced him that he was his nephew, the son of his long lost
sister. He knew not how severely he was injured, but the fact that he was
unconscious led him to believe that his injuries were serious, perhaps
fatal. He wished to see him, if it was but for a moment, but the Captain
had forbid, and his word was law.

But he will be well taken care of, he said to himself. The Captain’s wife
and Cora will nurse him carefully. But I fear that Cora will talk and
worry him. She is so giddy, self-willed and head strong, and will worry
him unintentionally. Then I am afraid she will take a liking to this
noble-looking young man. He is just her ideal of a man. I must see her,
and inform her of the position she sustains toward him. I must tell her
that she is his aunt. Then she will open all her guns on me, and as the
gunners say, “go off half cocked.” But it must be done, and in this way I
can learn his condition.

He pulled a cord that hung over the table, and the cabin boy appeared.

Hand this note to Miss Cora, placing a letter in the boy’s hand.

In a few moments Cora came rushing in, apparently much excited,
exclaiming:—

Oh, Charley! I am so glad you sent for me.

Stop, Miss Cora. On ship-board you must address people by their titles.
Say Lieutenant, not Charley.

Well, then Lord Lieutenant.

Cora—Cora, you are too rude. Leave the Lord out, and simply call me
Lieutenant.

Well, then brother, I am glad you sent for me. I am sure that I should
have busted if I hadn’t got away from there just as I did! Only to think
of a woman holding her mouth for twelve hours!

Nonsense, Cora! Nonsense! Come to the point.

That is just where I am coming. I am coming to the point—to the point of
explosion. As I said. I have held my mouth for twelve hours. Only think
of that. And all that time, I have been generating—holding in—filling up.
But now I will let off. Did you ever hear of a woman holding her tongue
so long before?

Cora, you are really cruel. I sent for you to learn something about the
stranger that is in the cabin.

That is just what I thought, and I will tell you all I know.

That is a good girl, Cora—I am dying to hear about him.

Yes, and I have been dying for twelve hours in his presence, and if you
hadn’t sent for me just as you did, I am sure that I should have been
dead gone.

But Cora, you are not telling me anything.

How can I? You talk all the while, and I can’t get a word in edgeways.

Ridiculous! Ridiculous! Oh, Cora, stop this ranting. Let the ridiculous
go, and tell me what has taken place in the cabin.

Ranting! Well, that is pretty language to come from the first Lieutenant
of the Reindeer. Well, may be I do rant. I have got a right to rant. I
will rant! I must let off this superabundant amount of gas that has been
generating in my brain for the last sixteen hours.

But I tell you it is ridiculous.

Well go on and tell me what is so ridiculous.

That is just what I have been trying to do for half an hour.

But I tell you it is ridiculous.

Well, go on.

I am going on if you will be still and give me a chance.

Then I will be still. I won’t speak again until you get through.

Then you will never speak again, for I never shall get through.

Charles remained silent.

Why don’t you speak? Why don’t you say something? There you sit as
stubborn as a mule. I thought you had something to say to me and sent for
me for that purpose.

Charles still remained silent.

Well, if it has come to this, that my brother can’t speak to me, I will
go. But I tell you it is ridiculous.

Charles still remained silent.

No, I won’t go. I’ll make you speak if I have to stay all day.

Charles lighted a cigar, and resigned himself to a chair.

Well now if that isn’t cool—yes, almost insulting. That is the way you
men have to give vent to your pent up feelings. And simply because
your sister gives vent to her feelings, you become mulish. But really,
Charles, it was the most ridiculous sight I ever saw. There lay the
handsomest man I ever saw, (the Lieutenant was all ears,) and the
Captain’s wife sat by his side and rubbed his face and cried. Yes, she
really cried. The tears ran down her face like an avalanche from the
Appenines. And if I stirred, she would point her finger and “Hist! Hist!”
The canary bird had to be removed, for fear its breath would annoy the
sleeper. But the most ridiculous thing was the kissing. Yes, when she
thought I wasn’t looking, she kissed him. Thinks I to myself, if the
Captain should catch you at that, there would be mutiny on board. But
when the Captain came, she kissed him all the more, and then the Captain
kissed her. Now wasn’t that ridiculous? He kissed her because she kissed
another man.

But Cora, what is the doctor doing for him?

The most ridiculous thing in the world. He is turning his frame into an
apothecary shop and his stomach into a chemical laboratory. Believe me
brother, both sides of the cabin are lined with vials, bottles, plasters
and rags. He is to take this kind every ten minutes, and that kind every
thirty minutes, and so on with the different kinds until we get around,
and then it is time to commence with the first again.

I suppose, Cora, that you rendered Mrs. Davis all the assistance you
could?

Certainly I did. I held the bowl while the doctor bled him. The doctor
said that in all cases of bruises and concussions, blood-letting was
necessary. And he did the necessary up for him scientifically, for when
he got through, I think he had drawn all the blood out of him.

That was kind in you Cora, and relieved Mrs. Davis from a very unpleasant
duty.

Oh, I did more than that. I was time-keeper.

Time-keeper—what do you mean by that?

I mean that I advanced on his stomach by schedule time, and cried “time”
like a referee in a prize fight, and Mrs. Davis advanced with the spoon.

Will he live, Cora?

Yes, as long as the medicine holds out. He hasn’t got any time to die
now. His mouth is continually opening and shutting, and as long as that
continues he is safe.

Does he move or speak?

Yes. Both. He continually moves his eyes, and their gaze is piercing. He
looked at me as if he intended to look me through. Those large, beautiful
orbs continually followed me, and once he raised his hand and said “Amy.”
It was spoken soft and affectionately. I think he took me for some other
person. Intelligence, not delirium beamed in his eye, and that eye
followed me wherever I went. What does it mean, brother? Who is he? What
is he? and where did he come from? What makes the Captain and his wife
take such an interest in him?

Were you and Mrs. Davis alone with him all night?

Yes, excepting an old white cat. Oh, Charley, I wish I was a cat.

Oh, no, my sister, you don’t wish any such thing.

Yes I do. I wish I could take that cat’s place.

Now Cora, don’t get visionary again.

There is nothing visionary about it. It was the most real thing that I
ever saw. I saw that cat lying on his breast, clasped in his arms.

And for that reason you want to be a cat?

What better reason? I am a woman, and what woman could resist the
temptation to be encircled within those manly arms, gaze into those dark,
deep orbs, drink in the sweet nectar of love, feel his heart beat in
unison with mine, and hear him pronounce those endearing words, “Mine is
thine, and thine is mine. Such is love’s most holy sign.”

Why, Cora, you are really romantic.

There is nothing romantic about it. I tell you, I am going to fall in
love. No, that don’t express it. I am going to jump in love with him.

What? before you know who or what he is? Perhaps he has been brought up
among the Indians.

Oh, pshaw! What difference would that make? You judge others by yourself.
You don’t know anything about a woman’s heart. When a woman loves, she
loves intently, earnestly, devotedly, and seeks to unite herself to the
object of her affection. Yes, I would rather marry an Indian than one of
your lisping dudes whose brains compare well with the sap in his cane,
and contains about as much sense, without pluck enough to fight a fly.
A woman hates timidity, and despises a coward. They prefer a rough man
to a timid fool. The rough man, when he kisses you, encircles you in his
arms, pressing you to his bosom, and imprints a kiss on your mouth that
electrifies the whole system. The dude stands off at arm’s length, and
kisses you on the tip of the finger. There is no electricity about that.
And when you come across one of those fellows, just make up your mind
that that fellow is a fraud, hypocrite or fool—probably a compound of all
three.

But Cora, there is a gulf between you and he—an abyss that cannot be
bridged.

Then I will jump it. Don’t you know that when a woman loves, all
obstacles can be overcome? that prison bars melt like ice in the meridian
sun? that love will pick locks and remove prison bolts? that time and
distance are annihilated, mountains become mole hills, and oceans mere
streams?

    What care I for gold and silver?
      What care I for houses and land?
    What care I for ships on the ocean?
      What I want is my own man.

But nature has placed an obstacle in the way, Cora, that can’t be removed.

And if it was in your power, you would not consent that it should be
removed.

_You are his own aunt!_

I, that man’s aunt? Well, Lieutenant, that shows that you are visionary.
Oh, you are a lunatic—insane—mad! I can’t trust myself here any longer
with you. Good day!

Stay, Cora, and I will explain. Sit down by my side, and hear the story
of your sister’s wrongs and the young man’s life.

I am all ears, Lieutenant.

The Lieutenant then related Walter’s history in full, not forgetting the
fight on the wharf and the way he was injured.

Cora remained silent for a few moments, then said:

Lieutenant, can this be? If so, truth is stranger than fiction But how do
you know that his statement is true!

By the best of proof, replied Powers. First, his appearance shows that
he is the soul of honor. Secondly, Webb found him on the Callicoon.
Thirdly, my agents reported that the families of Powers and Wallace
had resided there, and lastly, we know that many years ago, before you
were born, your sister married William Wallace, and your brother Thomas
married Mary Powers; that each of them had a child. Thomas Powers’s child
was named Amy, and William Wallace’s child was named Walter, after his
grand-father, Walter Wallace. The cat you saw, and of which you were
jealous, belongs to Walter. It was a present to him from Amy, and bears
her name.

But where is Amy Powers? asked Cora.

It is supposed that she was drowned. But Walter thinks otherwise, and the
object of this voyage was to discover her and his friends.

And discovered them before he got started, replied Cora.

No, you are in error there. He is ignorant of the fact that he has an
uncle and aunt on this ship. Now return to the cabin, and as soon as I
can get the Captain’s consent, I will be with you.

Cora left, and was soon at the side of her patient. Mrs. Davis motioned
her away, saying:

He is much better now, and is nearly himself again.

Amy! said the sick man.

Be quiet, my son, said Mrs. Davis. You have been very sick.

Walter attempted to raise himself.

Where am I? he said. What has taken place?

You are in the cabin of the Reindeer, far out at sea. You got hurt while
coming on board.

Then it was all a dream. All of my hopes have been dashed from me, he
said.

Captain Davis had been notified that Walter was conscious, and arrived in
time to hear his last remark.

Oh, that the dream could have lasted forever. I have been living my life
over again. I have seen and conversed with my darling Amy. Again I went
to the Callicoon, and again saw that mad stream. I saw the raft, with
mother, child and dog rush madly on. I saw them land, and carry their
lifeless forms to the shore. I saw the mother buried on the bank, and
Amy strew her grave with flowers. I heard her say, “I did, I shall, I
ever will love Walter Wallace.” I saw a young man there with a mark on
his breast of an anchor and ship. (Captain Davis started.) I saw a great,
good, wise Indian. They called him Cahoonshee. (Captain Davis turned
pale.) I saw Amy in the hands of the Indians. I awoke. It was a dream,
a dream only. I was conscious that I was on board the Reindeer, rolling
and rocking on the ocean, and the Captain and his wife watching over me,
when suddenly Amy appeared again. I am not asleep now. I am awake. I am
conscious of all that passes before me. I know that I see Amy. I extend
my hand and say “Amy,” she vanishes. She is gone. The rest of you remain.
I see you, why don’t I see her?

It was a delusion, my boy.

No, mother, it was no delusion. It was no dream. She was here—either in
body or spirit. She is here now. I feel her influence.

There is a lady on board, but not the Amy you speak of. It is a Miss
Powers.

Miss Powers? exclaimed Walter. That is her, Amy Powers, my long lost Amy!

Cora stood in her state room door, and heard all that Walter had said.
She recollected the proffered hand, and of his mentioning the name of
Amy. She was satisfied that Walter had seen her and taken her for Amy,
the love of his boyhood. Her position was embarrassing. Could it be
possible that she and Amy looked so much alike that Walter had seen in
her the exact counterpart of the image of his Amy? She beckoned the
Captain to her and told him of her suspicions and her reasons.

Shall I make myself known to him at once and drive away this delusion?
Shall I tell him that I am his aunt and not his Amy?

I think so, replied the Captain. He seems to be perfectly rational, and
the sooner he is convinced of his mistake, the better.

I will arrange my toilet and meet him, replied Cora.

There were some things said by Walter that deeply interested the Captain
and his wife. The mentioning of the anchor and ship on the breast of the
young man he saw in company of the Indian Cahoonshee struck deep into his
heart. This was a perfect description of his long lost child. The state
room door opens, and in comes Cora dressed in the same attire she wore
when she was addressed by Walter. She approached the bed. His eyes caught
her. He sprang from the bed, threw his arms around her exclaiming:

Found at last! My long, lost love, Amy. Now I am rewarded for a life
of toil and anxiety. Look into my eyes, Amy, and tell me that you
never forgot your Walter. Tell me of the sweet hours we passed on the
Callicoon. Tell me, oh tell me, can I yet call you mine?

Cora was embarrassed and did not know what to say. She was pleased with
the way that Walter addressed his supposed Amy.

Why don’t you speak? Do not let pride, place or circumstances influence
you. The time has been so great, perhaps destiny and circumstances have
changed your course, but not your affections. I will swear by the Gods
that you still love me.

Oh, said Cora, I wish I was your Amy. I wish these caresses were meant
for me. I wish that I could honestly continue to be encircled within
your manly arms. But no. It cannot be. This affection is meant for
another—not for me. I am not Amy, I am your aunt, and here by your side
stands your uncle, Lieutenant Charles Powers.

Walter fell back on his bed.

So near, yet so far, he exclaimed. Leave me alone to commune with my own
thoughts.

The Lieutenant took his hand and said:

Don’t be cast down, my nephew; It is always the darkest before day. The
light in your horizon has begun to appear. It will illuminate your whole
soul. Such love cannot go unrewarded. You will yet find your Amy. In the
morning you will be stronger, and will then learn the history of your
family.

The next morning Walter was so much improved that he went on deck, and
then to the room of Lieutenant Powers, where he learned the history of
his family, of which the reader is already apprised.

Really Walter, continued the Lieutenant, I am ashamed to relate the cause
that led to the estrangement between the Wallace and Powers families. It
was very trivial—in fact no cause at all. Your father, William and my
brother Thomas were two stripling boys, and each of them owned a game
rooster, and each thought his rooster the smartest. A cock fight was
agreed upon and the fathers of both sides invited to be present. The day
arrives, the families meet to see the sport, and the cocks go at each
other with vengeance and soon there is a dead cock in the pit. The owner
of the dead cock kicks at the victorious rooster. Then the boys clinch,
the old gentlemen get mad and interfere, and the result is eternal enmity
between the families so far as the fathers were concerned. Each forbid
their children to visit or hold any intercourse with each other. And to
this day the two fathers hold to their resentment. Twenty-five years
have passed, and during all that time they have not spoken together or
allowed their children, so far as they could prevent it. Not so with the
children of these mad parents. Your father and Thomas soon became friends
again, and often met and played together. Long before this estrangement,
your mother and father were friends, and in their juvenile days, pledged
to each other their love with their parents’ consent. And the same was
the case between my brother Thomas and Amelia Wallace. As they grew up,
they refused to break their engagement, and were married. For this they
were disinherited and driven from their parental roofs. A few friends
assisted them and they embarked for America. You know the rest.

Then the object I had in visiting the old world is accomplished, said
Walter. I have no desire to see those that drove their children from home
for following the dictates of their conscience and the man or maid of
their choice. Place me on board of the first returning ship we meet, and
I will return to the scenes of my childhood.

There is no necessity of that. Continue with us. Perhaps you may be the
means of a reconciliation between the families. Your grand-father Powers
is an old man, firmly set in his own ways. But I trust that the son of
his injured daughter, Amelia, may cause him to relent and forgive. He is
subject to heart disease, and his death may be expected at any time.

Walter replied:—

I will go and see my two grand-fathers and then return to America.

A tap is heard on the door, and a midshipman enters.

The Captain wishes to see Mr. Wallace and Lieutenant Powers in the cabin.

Arriving there the Captain said:—

Lieutenant, we have a very important, yet disagreeable duty to perform.
You must summon a court martial and try the mutineers. I should have
ordered it before, had Mr. Wallace been able to give his testimony. He
has now recovered, and we will proceed with the investigation at once.

The Lieutenant left the cabin.

Captain, said Walter, how many men have you to try?

Two. John Frost and Tom Jones. Poor fellows—I pity them.

How long have they been on the ship?

They have sailed with me for years. They entered the Navy when mere boys.

What has been their previous conduct, Captain?

They have always been good, steady men. Always punctual to obey. This is
their first offence.

And if convicted, said Walter, what then?

Hang them to the yard-arm, replied the Captain. Mutiny at sea cannot be
tolerated. An example must be made of them to deter others.

I admit, Captain, that example is a great educator, but is it not
example—the force of the education they have received on board of the
ship that got them into this trouble?

No sir! said the Captain excitedly. It was rum! Too much rum!

That is just the point, Captain—too much rum. But who set the example
before them? Who educated them to drink rum? Who dealt out to them,
twice a day, the deadly drug? And now follows the fearful consequences
of example and education. And now you will hang them to the yard-arm for
putting into practice the legitimate consequence of their education.
You say these men have followed the sea all their days—that they entered
the Navy when they were mere boys—that for long years they have served
you and your country well—that this is their first offence, and for this
offence they must die—must be suspended between the heavens and earth,
as an example, to deter others. And now those who set them the example
become their executioners.

Perhaps, said the Captain, I do not understand your real meaning, but if
I do, you charge the consequences of this mutiny upon me, and through me,
indirectly, upon the English Navy, their discipline and laws.

You have comprehended my meaning, Captain, these men are to be deprived
of life through the discipline and laws of the English Navy. I mean
that the education they have received, prepared—yes, propelled them to
commit the crime for which they are to suffer death. You dealt out to
them their rations of grog. You taught them to violate the laws of their
nature. You created in them an insatiate desire for strong drink. This
desire you could restrain while on ship-board, because there was a guard
over the tap, and British bayonets held their passions and appetites in
subjection. Not so when they were on shore. Then they were at liberty
to measure their own grog. Then their educated appetites cried “Rum!
More Rum!” Then British gold could furnish what English bayonets could
not prevent. Then they became maddened—frenzied—unaccountable beings.
Yes, Captain, it was rum! The demon, devil rum that was in them that did
it. And now, men, claiming to be the image of the God they worship are
to sit in judgement on their own work and strangle other images of the
same God. For doing what? For working out the legitimate consequences of
their education. Captain, can you take part in this great wrong? Will you
deprive a soul of life? a wife of a husband? a child of a father? and
society of a member? As for myself, I will not be a witness against these
misguided men. Sooner, would I be cast overboard, and trust to providence
to reach my native shore than imbrue my hands with their blood.

Young man, said the Captain, where did you learn this fine spun morality?

In the wilderness of America, he replied. Your government send their
missionaries there to christianize and civilize the Indians, with a bible
in one hand and a whiskey bottle in the other. They deal out to them this
liquid hell fire, obscure their reason, excite their passions, and make
of them devils incarnate. The Indians retaliate, and kill and burn all
within their reach. And then English guns, pointed with English bayonets,
enforce English laws, with the intention of exterminating the Indians.
With those Indians, Captain, is your lost boy.

How do you know that? excitedly exclaimed Davis.

I saw him in my dream. I saw the anchor and ship on his breast. I saw his
protector, Cahoonshee place him in your arms.

But Mr. Wallace, what connection has this with the punishment of the
mutineers?

That sailor, replied Walter, is a man, a father. His wife and child are
waiting, hoping, praying for his return. Both you and your child are
waiting, hoping, praying that you may meet again. As you may do by this
man and his child, may God do by you and your child.

This struck Captain Davis to the heart, and if it had been in his power,
he would have released the men at once. But duty, stern duty, forbid.
Some good excuse must be found, or the trial proceed.

Mr. Wallace, said the Captain, I admit the force of your reasoning as to
the cause that produced this difficulty, yet I see no escape. The law is
imperative, and these men must stand trial, and if convicted, they must
be executed. Show me an honorable way, and I will save them.

There is a way, Captain, a legal way to save the lives of these men.

How? exclaimed the Captain excitedly. I did not know that you were versed
in marine law.

Because you have no power to try and execute these men.

What! No power to punish for mutiny at sea?

I do not deny that power, but there has been no mutiny at sea. It was a
riot on land. Have you jurisdiction over crimes committed on land?

Really, my boy, that is an idea I had not thought of.

I had, replied Walter. And even if the difficulty had taken place on
board of the ship, I don’t think that you could legally try and execute
these men. _Vattel_ says that it is only in extreme cases that this
summary proceeding can be resorted to. Where you have proof of a deep
laid conspiracy to murder the officers and take the ship, you may resort
to this summary trial. Unless this danger exists, you must turn the men
over to be tried by the laws of the land.

I will consult my officers, replied the Captain.

With your consent, I would like to visit these men, said Walter.

You have my consent, replied the Captain.

The Captain and his First Lieutenant had a long conversation in relation
to the court he had ordered convened, and came to the conclusion to defer
it for the present.

Walter and Lieutenant Powers went to see the prisoners, and found them at
the bottom of the ship, where there was no light or air fit to breathe. A
horrid stench pervaded, and the odor of bilge water made the place almost
unbearable. They had groped their way through total darkness, aided only
by a tallow candle.

These are the men we are in search of, said Powers to Walter.

Yes, here we are, replied Frost. But gentlemen, if you value your lives,
leave this place at once. Don’t inhale this poison vapor.

Powers was holding the candle, which gave but an imperfect light and made
the men before him look ghastly.

Wallace was dumb with horror, when suddenly a figure in white appeared.

What have we got here? exclaimed Powers.

An angel, said Tom Jones, feeding two of the King’s subjects with the
crumbs that fell from the master’s table.

Silence, man! Raising the light toward the figure before him. Speak! Be
you man, devil or angel! Speak!

The figure advanced.

I am neither man or angel, but the charge of devil may apply.

What? what are you doing here? said Powers.

Feeding these unfortunate men, and preparing them for the ordeal they
have got to go through.

Cora, are you not aware that this is beneath the dignity of your station,
and a violation of the laws of the ship?

Lieutenant, are the laws of the ship above the laws of humanity? and
God’s laws? that command us to visit those who are in prison, the sick
and afflicted? Shame, brother, shame, that anything in the form of a
man, or in the image of God should be treated thus—ironed to the floor,
and stifled with bad air.

Cora, you must leave here. Mr. Wallace, will you escort her on deck? This
interview must close.

When is our trial to come off? asked Tom Jones.

That I can’t say, replied the Lieutenant. But it is improper to talk
about it here. When the time comes, you will be notified.

As for me, said Jones, I am ready to be tried, and if convicted, to die.
I am alone in the world—without wife, child or chick. There is no one
to mourn my loss or suffer by my disgrace. But it is different with my
ship-mate, Frost. He has a wife and children that love him dearly, I wish
he could be spared. If it is necessary that the law should be vindicated,
and an example set to deter others, let them make an example of me, and
hang me to the yard-arm, in view of the whole ship’s company. If any
one is to blame, I am. This man is innocent. He took no part in the
affray. He was shoved to the front by the crowd behind. As for me, I was
a leader, an unconscious leader. I was crazed with rum. I came on this
ship when a small boy. It was here I took my first drink. It was here I
acquired the appetite for strong drink. It was here that I was educated,
that to be manly, I must take my rations. On the ship, I kept sober and
performed my duty. Here I could get but a limited quantity. On the ship
I learned and believed that Friday was an unlucky day, and the ship that
left port on that day would meet with bad luck. Never before had the
Captain ordered us to sail on that day. Being frenzied with rum at the
tavern, where we could get all we wanted, a few of us resolved that we
would not go to sea that day. You know the rest better than I do. It was
not Tom Jones that revolted, it was the rum that was in him. It was rum
in and Tom Jones out. It was the act of a mad man—a demon—a devil, crazed
by rum.

Mr. Wallace, let us go. It is sickening here, exclaimed the Lieutenant.

What, said Cora, is sickening? these men or the air you compel them to
breathe? This, brother, is murder without the benefit of the clergy.
Perhaps you have the right to take these men’s lives, according to law,
but you have no right to be inhuman and deprive them of life in this foul
and poisonous air.

What would you have me do, Cora? said the Lieutenant.

Take off these irons, take them on deck, and then hang them. For doing
what? For obeying the instincts of their nature. For doing what they
could not help. And then in order that the job be done scientifically
and religiously, you and Captain Davis should be their executioners.
You began the work—you learned these men to drink—on you rests the
responsibility of their acts. And it is but fitting that you finish the
work you began. Turn hangman, Lieutenant, turn hangman.

Cora, exclaimed Powers excitedly, you must stop this ranting. If a man
had so far forgot himself as to address an officer as you have done, he
would swing at the yard-arm before sun-down.

Then you will have an execution before dark, replied Walter, for I
endorse every word she has said.

Mr. Wallace, said the Lieutenant, this thing must stop. You and Cora must
leave, and I will see that justice is done these men.

All parties left, and soon after met in the cabin. Captain Davis was
walking the floor, and seemed to be absorbed in deep thought. Mrs. Davis
met Walter with a smile, and motioned him to take a chair by her side. A
moment after, Cora came in, followed by Lieutenant Powers.

Have you seen Frost and Jones? asked Mrs. Davis.

We have, replied Walter.

And what is your wish toward them? asked the Captain.

To give them their liberty, and set them to work. My word for it Captain,
there isn’t two more loyal men in the British Navy than Tom Jones and
Jack Frost, and they have been sufficiently punished for all the wrong
they have done.

Mr. Wallace, there is force in your reasoning. Yet, as Commander of this
ship, I must make a full report, and account for the men we left on shore.

That is the key to the whole matter, Captain. Report the case just as
it is—that the leaders of the mutiny were killed on the spot, and Jones
and Frost were punished by being placed in irons and confined between
decks for twenty days and then set to work. This, I think, would be
satisfactory, both to the men and the government.

I will lay the matter before my officers, replied the Captain, and be
governed in the matter by their judgment.

A council of the ship’s officers was called, and Walter was invited to be
present, the result of which was, that Jones and Frost were restored to
liberty.

It was soon known on board of the ship that Walter had been instrumental
in procuring the release of the men, and for that reason, he became the
idol of the crew, and a friendship grew up between them that lasted for
life.

During the remainder of the voyage Walter spent most of his time with
these men, and from them learned the whole routine of the sailors’ duty
in working and sailing a ship.

Walter was an apt scholar, and by time England was reached he was a
first-class sailor.

On the evening of the day on which Jones and Frost were released, Walter
and Lieutenant Powers had a long conversation in relation to their future
action.

In a few days we shall arrive in port, and then you will have an
opportunity to see your two grand-fathers. How they will receive you, or
whether they will receive you at all is uncertain. They are now both very
old men. Your grand-father Wallace, I think, will receive and acknowledge
you as his grand-son. He has never effaced from his memory the love he
had for your mother, and never neglects an opportunity of inquiring if
any intelligence has been received from your father’s family. But your
grand-father Powers is very uncertain. I fear that he will refuse to see
you, and perhaps insult you, should you appear before him. But Cora and I
will do the best we can to effect a reconciliation.

Uncle, said Walter, the object I had in view in visiting the old world
is accomplished. I have found the friends of mine and Amy’s family.
The causes that drove my parents from their native shore still exists.
Parents that could exile their own child would have no conscientious
scruples, and would disown and drive from their door the grand-child of
their own offspring. I have met an uncle and an aunt. Let that suffice. I
have no desire to meet those that think or speak unkindly of my parents.
My mother is dead and cannot speak in her own defense. That now becomes
my duty—a duty that I will neither court nor shrink from. But woe unto
the man that slanders my dead mother. Perhaps I had better not see either
of my grand-parents—at least not until they make the request. I hope that
our stay in port will be short, as I am anxious to prosecute my search in
America for my lost friend.

The voyage is nearly completed. The distant shores of the old world are
in view. The Reindeer is proudly entering the mouth of the Thames, and
sixty miles more will bring us to our destination.

Walter stood leaning against the taffrail, near the stern, gazing
land-ward. While his eyes were taking in objects along shore, his mind
was employed in a different direction. His thoughts led him back to the
scenes of his childhood. The little farm on the Callicoon—the mad waters
of the Beaver Dam—the screeching panther—the motherly bear—the swiftly
gliding raft with its human freight—the last agonizing look of Amy.

I am now three thousand miles from home, he said to himself, and for what
purpose? To see my old and hard hearted grand-fathers. To be spurned and
scorned by them, simply because I am of their blood. They will tell me
that I have come there a beggar on their bounty—that I am a son of their
disgraced children. No! By heavens they shall not have the opportunity
to insult me or the memory of my dead parents. At their request, and at
their request only, will I appear before them.

Don’t be too positive of that, exclaimed a voice behind him. Your
uncle and aunt have some rights to assert in this matter. You are too
despondent. Cast off those gloomy feelings and look forward to sunshine
and happiness. Although you have lived in obscurity, you are of noble
blood. The grand-son of a Lord on one hand, and of an Admiral on the
other, and I shall be proud to introduce you to the best families in
England.

Yes—to be reviled and insulted, because I am the son of an out-cast,
replied Walter.

No, my boy. To be received, and loved, and owned by all. To take your
proper position in society, and your grand-father’s name and position.

Ah, Cora, you don’t know me. You know not that I care not for Lords or
Admirals. I care nothing for wealth or titles. I would not exchange
one inch of American soil for all Briton, nor my blue eyed Amy for the
fairest woman in London.

You think so now, but wait until you have entered society. Wait until
you have embarked on the stream of fashion. Wait until the eyes of some
London beauty looks long and deep into your dark orbs and say in language
that is as silent as the grave, yet as powerful as the thunder that shook
Sinai. Wait until you hear one say “Walter, I love you.” Wait until you
know yourself, and know that you have your likes and dislikes, and are
subjected to the same temptations as other men. Wait until you meet with
the woman whose heart beats in unison with your own, who seems to be a
part of yourself as she looks in your eyes. One that will cause your soul
to silently exclaim: “Mine is thine and thine is mine.”

Stop, Cora! Proceed no further. You have reached the pinnacle of love.
You have described my ideal of woman. The eyes you spoke of are beaming
on me now. The heart you spoke of presses on my own. They beat together.
They beat in unison. They are twain—one flesh. I feel her breath on my
brow. I hear her sweet voice whispering in my ear: “Mine is thine, and
thine is mine.” By an invisible magnetic influence, we keep up a sweet
correspondence. The woman you spoke of is my guardian angel, and as
the lofty spires come in view, as the panorama of wealth, beauty and
temptation are unfolding, I feel as if I was encircled within her arms
and hear her say: “Walter, remember our infantile love, the seed of
which was planted on the banks of the Callicoon. Here it grew. Here it
germinated. Here the rose unfolded and expanded. Here it was clothed in
the garb of immortality, never ending, never dying love.”

Walter, you are really romantic, and your imagination is floating about
in space, surrounded by ethereal glory. But where is this object of
your affections? Where is this Amy? Does she exist outside of your
imagination? Will you ever see her again? And if you do, will she
yet cherish the feelings toward you that you have pictured in your
imagination?

Cora, before I answer that question, I must ask you one. Have you ever
loved?

What a curious question—and what has that to do with your blue eyed Amy
on the Callicoon.

Simply this. If you have experienced the pangs or pleasures of love, your
heart will answer the question. If you have not, then you are incapable
of understanding the reasons why I believe that I shall meet the object
of my affections again.

Really, Walter, I don’t think that I ever loved in the sense your words
imply. Yet I must confess that I have a longing desire for a companion.
Should my ideal of a man seek my hand and heart, and woo me as you do
your imaginary Amy, I would love him with my whole heart, and go with
him to the end of the world. But such men are scarce. They are not often
to be found in high life. Marriage with many is a matter of convenience.
With others it is purely mercenary. Society is wrong side up, and in
order to carry out the whims of society, women must act the part of
hypocrites. To-day I am Cora. I can talk and dress natural. Yes, here
there is no impropriety in talking sensible, but to-morrow it will be
different. I shall be in London. Then I am no longer Cora. Then I am Miss
Powers. Miss Lady Powers. Tied, body and soul by fashion, and expected
to smile on every hypocrite and fool that presents himself. Like you, I
love America, and my ideal of a man is to be found in the forest. And if
ever I do love, it will be a wild man of the forest. When you return, I
will return with you. Wherever you go in search of your lost Amy, I will
follow, and something seems to tell me that when you find your Amy, I
will find my hero.

That night they all met in the cabin, and a spirited conversation was
carried on as to their future movements.

To-morrow, said Mrs. Davis, we will receive our friends. To-morrow night
we will have a reception ball on board of the ship, and the next day
we will be at liberty to go on shore. I anticipate much pleasure in
presenting Mr. Wallace to his family and friends, and have some curiosity
to see how he will steer his way through the swarm of English butterflies
that will be buzzing in his ears when they learn that he is the grand-son
of Lord Wallace. I fear that he will feel and appear awkward. Cora and I
must give him some lessons.

I will save you that trouble, replied Walter. I have different
arrangements, and shall not be here to be laughed at for my awkwardness.
I shall spend to-morrow among friends that can appreciate the friendship
of a wild man from the woods. I go on shore with Tom Jones and Jack
Frost. I prefer them before all others to introduce me to the mysteries
and miseries of London life.

Why Walter, that would be unpardonable. Certainly you will not appear on
shore in company with common sailors?

Certainly I shall go on shore with the men I have named. You call them
common sailors. I call them nature’s noblemen.

Walter, said Mrs. Davis, they will both be drunk before they have been on
shore an hour. And then what a sight.

That compels me to give the reason why I go with them. It is to prevent
what you fear that causes me to accompany them. And I shall go with them
dressed in sailor clothes.

That is ridiculous! exclaimed Mrs. Davis. Captain, you must stop this
thing.

Mr. Wallace has my consent and approval of the course he is about to
take. If he can go on shore with two old man-of-war’s-men and keep them
sober, he is a genius that has never been found before in the English
Navy. He has another reason why he does not wish to remain on board
to-morrow, for which we must excuse him. Lord Wallace, family and friends
will be here, and it will be better that the existence of his grand-son
should be pronounced prior to the meeting, for Walter has firmly resolved
that he will see neither of his grand-fathers except on their special
request. Therefore, let us retire and prepare for the morrow.

During the night the ship sailed within two miles of London and cast
anchor, and before the sun had risen, every sail was secured and the
ship dressed in gally style. The docks were lined with people, many of
whom had been attracted there by idle curiosity. Others expected to meet
friends or hear from relatives in America. Others had husbands, sons or
lovers on board, and were straining their eyes to see their long absent
loved ones.

Walter and his two friends appeared on deck, dressed in full sailor
uniform. They were about to get into the yawl to go on shore, when Cora
took Walter aside and said:

Will you come on board to-night?

Yes, he replied, if you request it.

I do request it. Be in the Lieutenant’s room at eleven o’clock. Now good
bye for the present.

At this instant the ship’s surgeon requested an interview with Cora.

Why, doctor, what is the matter? You look as if you had lost your best
friend.

I have lost nothing but a patient. The cat Amy is dead. I feared to break
the news to him, and called on you for advice.

Don’t, for the world, tell him now. Take it to a taxidermist and have it
stuffed, and I will explain it to him in due time.

The trio entered the boat, and in a few moments were safely landed on the
wharf.

A rush is made to reach the sailors, and Tom and Jack are soon in the
hands of their friends.

Frost’s wife and daughter nearly smothered him with kisses, and Tom’s
friends received him kindly, and immediately invited him to go to a
tavern and take something to drink.

Never! replied Tom. I have drunk my last glass of grog. I thank you for
your friendship, but if you are true friends, don’t tempt me to drink rum.

Clear the way! Clear the way for Lord Wallace! exclaimed an officer. Make
room for Lord Wallace.

Walter heard this name pronounced, and looking up, saw an old gentleman
approaching, followed by a long list of friends and servants.

This, he thought to himself, is my grand-father Wallace.

On a nearer view, he saw that he was a man of about eighty years, but
hale and hearty.

A boat was in readiness to convey his Lordship on board of the Reindeer.
A plank was laid from the dock to the boat, and his Lordship started to
walk on board.

He had nearly reached the boat, when the plank slipped from the wharf,
and he was precipitated into the river. It was a strong ebb tide, and
a few feet would carry him under the vessel. Walter caught the end of a
rope and dove. For a moment he disappeared, and Tom and Frost feared that
their friend was drowned. The next instant he appeared at the surface
holding Lord Wallace by the hair.

Tom and Frost pulled in the rope, and grand-father and grand-son were
safely landed. The elder Wallace was apparently dead.

Stand back, men! Stand back! cried Tom at the top of his voice. Roll him
on the barrel, Jack.

There men, gently. Roll him gently, said Walter.

The rolling had the desired effect, and in a few moments he was
relieved of the water he had taken in, and showed signs of returning
consciousness. In a few moments he was able to speak.

To whom am I indebted for my deliverance from a watery grave? he asked.

To this young man, replied Tom pointing to Walter.

Are you one of the crew of the Reindeer?

I have the honor to serve in that capacity to-day my Lord.

The keen eyes of the old man was bent on the youth before him, and
something there reminded him of days long passed. He saw in the young man
a duplicate of a picture that hung in his gallery. Memory flashed the
fact home that more than twenty years before he had driven from his home
the exact counterpart of the young man who had so nobly saved his life.

Young man, he said, you have done me one favor. Will you now promise to
do me another?

Certainly, my Lord, if it is consistent, replied Walter.

Then accompany me to my house, to the end that we may become better
acquainted.

Yes, on one condition—that my mess-mates can accompany me.

Certainly, the whole ship’s crew if you desire.

A conveyance was procured, and in a few moments Walter and his friends
were being driven through the streets of London.

This was both new and novel for Walter. He had read something of London
fog, London life and London women; but on London noise and London
cold he was not posted, especially as to the latter. Both himself and
grand-father were wet to the skin in consequence of their late immersion
in the Thames, and long before they reached the residence of Lord Wallace
they both chattered with the cold. At length the residence is reached and
the parties alighted.

Take these gentlemen into the green room, and furnish them with dry
clothes and a good fire, said Lord Wallace to his servants.

The servants beckoned them to follow, which they did.

After ascending several winding stairs and traversing intricate halls and
gloomy recesses, they were ushered into the green room, where a blazing
fire was burning. As soon as the servant retired, Frost approached Walter
and said:

Never tell me again that Friday is an unlucky day. I tell you friend
Walt, that Friday is your lucky day. It is on Friday that your star is on
the meridian.

How so? asked Walter.

It was on Friday we sailed. On Friday we cast anchor on our native shore.
On Friday you saved the life of Lord Wallace, and my word for it, it is a
lucky day for you. The old man has taken a liking to you, and he will do
something handsome for you. He is rich as a jew, without a wife, child or
chicken.

Have you ever seen him before?

Yes, many a time. I remember when he drove his son from home because he
married Amelia Powers. And when I return from a cruise he asks me what I
have seen or heard in America. I believe he never heard from his son.

Did you hear the son’s name?

Oh, yes. His name was William. He and his cousin, Thomas Powers had a
quarrel about a cock fight. The old folks interfered and made fools of
themselves, and in the end disinherited their children for following the
dictates of their own consciences and the man and maid of their choice.

How long Frost would have continued the history it is hard to tell. But
at this point a servant announced that Lord Wallace desired their company
in the dining room.

The trio followed the servant to the dining room where they found Lord
Wallace waiting.

Sit down, gentlemen. A little brandy will do you good. It will drive away
coughs, colds and rheumatism which will follow the cold bath we took this
morning. Brandy. Pure brandy. Here, Stupid, (addressing the servant,)
fill up these glasses with the pure cognac. Now my men, lay to and help
yourselves. Don’t feel timid because you are in the house of a Lord. Eat,
drink and be merry, for this, my son, was dead, but now is alive. He was
lost, but now is found. Hic—hic—Come, Stupid, fill up the glasses—hic—hic.

It was evident that his Lordship had freely imbibed of his beverage,
brandy, before he sent for his friends, and it was with difficulty that
he could maintain an erect position in his chair.

He commenced again:—

Come, hearties—heave to and get yourselves on the outside of that bottle
of brandy. Hic—hic—It’s the pure juice—hic. Here’s to Cap-Cap-Captain
Davis and the Reindeer. Why in the devil don’t you drink?

My Lord, you must excuse us, said Walter. We don’t drink. We have pledged
ourselves not to touch, taste or handle strong drink. We think the soul
more merry and the body more active without it.

Who the devil are you? what the devil are you? where did you come from?
Hic—hic. This is a day of surprises. The arrival of the Reindeer was
a surprise—my baptism was a surprise—but the climax of all surprises
is to find three man-of-war’s men—three Englishmen that refuse brandy.
Impossible! Increditable! Unnatural. Come boys, lay to, take a swig with
the old man, and suiting the action to the word, downed another glass of
brandy.

I say, Stupid, why don’t you make these old tars d-r-i-n-k.
Yes-d-r-i-n-k-hic-hic.

The old man dropped his glass and fell back in his chair in a drunken
slumber. Walter viewed him intently for a few moments, then said:

Rather a bad example for a grand-father to set before his son.

His son? exclaimed Frost. What do you mean by that? and what did he mean
when he said “the dead are alive, the lost is found?”

It means, replied Walter, that I am his grand-son.

What? the son of William Wallace? the one that was driven from home for
marrying Amelia Powers?

Exactly so, my friend Frost. But let that remain a secret for the
present.

Would you know your father’s picture if you should see it? asked Tom.

Yes, as well as I would my own.

Then you shall see it. Here, Stupid! Where are you?

Stupid stepped into the room.

Show us to your Master’s gallery, said Tom.

In a few minutes the trio stood in the art gallery of the Wallace
mansion. One side of the room was filled with statuary, rusty swords and
worn out helmets. The other side contained the pictures of the Wallace
family for several generations. Walter’s eye fell on that of his father
and of his aunt Mary, the mother of Amy. His gaze was long and earnest.
In Mary, he saw the form and figure of his long lost Amy.

How could he! How could he! he exclaimed, drive away two such lovely
beings from his home? How could he be so unnatural as to violate the
laws of his own nature and turn from his home his own flesh and blood? I
should think that these walls would have cried out “Father, save mother,
save me from this great and unnatural wrong.” Let us go, Frost, let us
leave this memorial of the past. Let us visit your happy home, and see
the contrast between the poor—happy and contented on the one hand, and
the lordly, wealthy and miserable on the other.

Lord Wallace slept and snored and snored and slept, until the fumes of
the brandy had passed off. He then was, in a measure himself again. He
opened his eyes and looked around, seemingly with the expectation of
seeing the three sailors, but he looked in vain. They were gone.

Stupid! he cried. Stupid, you blockhead! Where are the sailors that were
here a few moments ago?

They are gone, my Lord.

Gone where? (bringing his cane down on the table with such violence as
to set the tumblers dancing.) How dare you suffer them to depart without
informing me? Go and get them and bring them back immediately, or I will
break every bone in your body.

My Lord, I neither know where they live or where they have gone. After
you went to sleep, they went to the gallery. There the young sailor that
fished you out became interested in the portrait of your absent son
William. I heard him say “father,” and the one by his side he called
“aunt Mary.” I heard him say “How could he be so unnatural as to drive
two such lovely beings from his home?”

What further did he say?

He said “Let us go,” and they departed.

The old man bent his head on the table, and for some moments remained
silent. At last he said to himself:

What does this mean? What is it about this young man that impresses me
so? What interest can he have in the pictures in the gallery? What can
he know of my son or the causes that sent him to America? This must have
a deep meaning. Captain Davis must be able to explain it. I will go to
him immediately. Stupid, tell Gehu that I am ready to go on board of the
Reindeer.

A gentleman is waiting for you in the library, said Stupid.

Who is he? and what does he want? impatiently asked Wallace.

He is a stranger, my Lord, but here is his card.

The old gentleman took the card and read: “Lieutenant Powers, of the ship
Reindeer.”

What! exclaimed Wallace. Charles Powers, the son of my most inveterate
enemy—he wishes to see me? Not one of that family has darkened my doors
for over twenty years. But I will see him.

Wallace proceeded to the library, trying to revolve in his mind what had
brought the Lieutenant to his house. Entering, he found the Lieutenant
pacing the floor. Turning, they met, face to face. Each seemed to be at a
loss as to who should speak first.

My Lord, said the Lieutenant, you will pardon this intrusion. I have been
informed, that by the carelessness of one of our men, you met with a
serious accident. I called to inquire about your health.

Yes, Lieutenant, by someone’s carelessness, I was plunged into the river.
But by the cool bravery of another of your men I was saved. Not one man
in a hundred would have attempted my rescue, and not one man in thousand
would have succeeded. But here I am. That is proof that I am not drowned.
But the young sailor that so fearlessly risked his life to save me has
slipped through my fingers.

I do not comprehend your meaning, my Lord, replied the Lieutenant.

I am not surprised at that, for I do not comprehend it myself. This
much I know however. Three of your men accompanied me home. By the
time we arrived here, I was chilled through, and in order to start the
circulation, I drank brandy freely, and offered them some, but they
refused. In order to encourage them, I took an overdose, and soon forgot
whether I was in or out of the Thames. When I awoke, they were gone, and
I was just starting to board the Reindeer to learn who the young man was.
But as he is one of your men, I presume that you can give me the desired
information.

Pardon me my Lord, but I am not at liberty to speak for the young man
you allude to. All I can say is, that he was a passenger on board of the
Reindeer—a guest of Captain Davis and wife. But, my Lord, why so much
solicitation about this young man? He simply did his duty as a man and
sailor. He exercised the common instincts of humanity, that is all. And
now, my Lord, when may Captain Davis expect you on board of the Reindeer?

Immediately, he replied. I was on the point of going when I received your
card.

Then my Lord, I will bid you good day, and I trust that you will reach
the deck in safety.

Do you return to the ship?

Not at present. I have not seen my father yet. I shall spend the
afternoon with him and return on board of the Reindeer in the evening.

The word “father” fell on the ear of the old man with more than ordinary
significance. He was a father, yet he had no child. Other homes were
made bright and happy. The voices of children and grand-children were to
be heard, the infirmities of old age were softened and soothed by the
lisping and prattling of the little ones.

But my house is dark, doleful and deserted. Servants and servants only
meet and greet me. Oh, my God! he exclaimed audibly, what have I done to
be deprived of the comforts that others enjoy? Yes, what have I done—or
rather what have I not done? Lieutenant, I am a monster—a demon—an
unnatural father. I will smother it no longer. The fair form and figure
of that young sailor has caused the scales to fall from my eyes. I
wronged my children, but I wronged myself more. They have gone. They
are beyond reproach. They have not remorse nor the sting of a guilty
conscience. They have gone to a world of bliss, a world of peace and
joy. I remain. I remain alone. Not one drop of my blood circulates in the
veins of any mortal. Lieutenant, excuse this weakness. Go and administer
to the wants of your father. Tell him I forgive him for all real or
imaginary wrongs. Yes, tell him I ask his forgiveness, and wish to be
forgiven before the dark veil of the future is withdrawn. Tell him that I
am a miserable, lonely, unhappy man. Tell him that this day I have seen
the ghost of his and my child, dressed in the garb of a common sailor.

Lieutenant Powers had been an interested listener, and was more than
half convinced that Lord Wallace would become reconciled to own and
receive his grand-son. He saw that his memory had been awakened and his
suspicions aroused by the young man who had saved his life.

I must bid you good day, my Lord, and hurry to my father, realizing that
I shall meet you on board of the Reindeer this evening.

Lord Wallace rose from his chair and attempted to extend his hand, but
his emotions overcame him. After faltering for several moments, he gave
vent to his thoughts.

Lieutenant, excuse me for asking one more question.

Certainly, my Lord.

In your rambles in America, have you learned the truth as to the death of
those that your father and myself so wrongfully drove to that wilderness
world?

I have heard, my Lord, that they are dead. I had the whole country
searched at the time, and the result convinced me that all four perished
by drowning.

But they each had a child. Did they perish also?

The Lieutenant was now brought to a point that there was no evading.
It had been his intention of breaking the news to his father before
acquainting Lord Wallace with the fact that the simple sailor that saved
his life was none other than his own grand-son. But to deny or evade the
truth, he could not. He replied:

My Lord, we have some reason for believing that their children are alive.

Have you seen them? he asked, while the tears trickled down his cheeks.

Yes, replied the Lieutenant.

When?

This morning. Walter Wallace, your grand-son, left the ship with two
other sailors, and the first act that he performed after reaching the
shore, was to save his grand-father’s life. It was he that rescued you
from a watery grave. It was he that refused your brandy. It was the son
of your long lost William.

Thank heaven! the old man replied. I shall have the opportunity in part
to atone for my past errors. I discarded my child then. Now I will own,
cherish and protect his offspring. But you say nothing of the other
child. Where is she? Where is the child of Mary Powers?

My Lord, you must excuse me for not answering that question. When you see
your grand-son he will inform you of all.

And when will I see him?

On board of the Reindeer to-night. Until that time you must excuse me.
Good day. I go to see my father.

Lord Wallace was alone, and for a long time communed with his own
thoughts.

What fools, he thought to himself, we have been. And all over a cock
fight. The children exercised more judgement than their parents. They
forgave each other, while the Admiral and I have kept alive the old
animosity, and made ourselves miserable. But thank God sunlight begins
to filter through the dark clouds that so long have separated me from my
child. I will take them home to live with me, and hereafter I will have
sunlight in my house and joy in my heart.



CHAPTER XV.

    Death of Admiral Powers—Five Years in a Mad House—Appointed
    Lieutenant—Return to America.


In one of the most elegant houses, on one of the most fashionable streets
in London, sat two persons before a blazing fire. One was a young woman,
dressed in the height of fashion, yet scarcely twenty years of age. Her
countenance beamed with intelligence, as she closely watched the person
that occupied the old arm chair in the opposite corner. It was evident
from the appearance of her countenance that something was operating
upon her mind of more than ordinary importance, and from which she
seemed to shrink. She closely watched the features of her companion as
if determined to read his thoughts. This was Miss Powers. The other was
Admiral Powers, her father. He had passed his three-score-years-and-ten.
He sat in his chair, with a large heavy cane in his right hand. It was
hard to determine whether he was awake or asleep. His eyes opened and
shut at regular intervals, and his cane kept a continual thump-thump on
the floor. Occasionally he would turn his face toward his daughter, and
move the muscles, as if about to address her, then suddenly relapse into
his former state. If awake, it was evident that he was trying to conquer
some emotion. At length he brought his cane down as if to emphasize what
he was about to say.

Cora!

Yes, father, I am here.

Well, tell me something I don’t know! Tell me why Charles don’t come!
Ungrateful dog! I suppose he will call on everybody in London before he
thinks of his father!

No, father, you do him an injustice. He will come as soon as his business
permits.

Cora, you are impertinent. You charge your father with injustice. Have I
ever been unjust to one of my children?

I did not mean that father, I meant that you were mistaken. That Charles——

That fiddle-sticks! Remember, girl, that I am _never_ mistaken. That what
I know I know, and what I know is law.

I meant father, that Charles would be here, as soon as he accomplishes
the business he was sent on by Captain Davis.

Captain Davis has no authority over my son while on land. You forget that
I am Admiral here—Lord High Admiral.

I forget nothing, father. But Captain Davis sent Charles on a mission of
humanity and as soon as that is accomplished he will be here. An accident
happened to Lord Wallace at the wharf this morning.

Accidents are always happening him. I hope this time he got drowned in
earnest.

No, father, not drowned, but nearly so. If it had not been for a young
man that belongs to the Reindeer, he would have perished.

Curse the young man that saved him. He ought to have let him go and
become food for the sharks.

Oh, father, don’t say that.

Yes, I will say that! I say he ought to have been drowned years ago!
Didn’t he rob me of a son and daughter?

I presume he would say that you robbed him in the same way.

Presume, eh! What right have you to presume? (bringing down his cane,)
I’ll teach you to presume, you hussy! You charge your father with
robbing! (thump—thump.)

Oh, no, father, I don’t charge you with anything. I don’t mean anything.

I do. I mean everything, (striking the table with his cane.)
You must have been taking lessons from the red-skins in
America, and haven’t retained their manners. You are a regular
wild-cat—catamount—tiger—rattlesnake!

A servant enters and announces the arrival of Lieutenant Powers.

Send the contemptible dog in! he exclaimed in a rage.

Father, he is your son. Don’t call him a dog.

I shall call him what I please! I will!—I will!

The Lieutenant enters, and with extended hands approaches his father.

My dear father! How do you do?

How do I do? What do you care how I do? It seems that I am the last one
you think of. I learn sir, that you passed by me—that you called on Lord
Wallace—my most inveterate enemy!

You are mistaken, father, he is not your enemy.

Zounds! boy! You must be drunk or crazy! You would make me believe that
he is my friend?

Such is the case, father. He wishes to bury the past. He desires a
reconciliation between the families of Powers and Wallace. He wishes,
before he closes his eyes in death, to forgive and be forgiven.

That shows that he is a craven coward. Scared at the prospect of hell, of
which he had a slight view this morning while under water. That is the
cause of this sudden repentance, and will last as long as his clothes are
wet. No longer, boy—no longer. Have you no other reason why you believe
this repentance genuine?

I have, father, the best of reasons why I believe him sincere. Remorse,
on the one hand, and the hope of reward on the other, are the causes that
lead him to seek this reconciliation. Remorse for driving his children
from his home—Reward in receiving them back.

Receiving who back? exclaimed the Admiral, attempting to rise from his
chair.

The Lieutenant continued:——

In owning and receiving in his house and heart the son of your daughter
Amelia—the son of his son William—the representative of both families,
and is the only one living that has the right to call you grand-father.

Did you learn this on your last cruise to America?

I did—or rather on our return, replied the Lieutenant.

The old Admiral sank back in his chair, closed his eyes, and remained
silent for some moments. Occasionally he would strike his cane on the
floor and move himself about in his chair. The Lieutenant and Cora
watched him with interest. At last he opened his eyes and attempted
to speak, but instantly closed then again. It was evident that he was
struggling with his feelings, but he said or did nothing to commit
himself. A long silence ensued, then rising to his feet, said:

Charles, where is this person you were speaking of? Is it a boy or girl?

It is a boy—or rather man, father, and his name is Walter Wallace.

At the mention of this name, the Admiral turned red in the face.

Walter Wallace! he exclaimed. The name of my despised enemy. But what of
my son Thomas?

Dead? replied the Lieutenant.

His wife? gasped the Admiral.

Dead! replied the son.

They had a child named after—after—

Here his feelings controlled his actions. He was about to speak the name
of her who had been the companion of his youth—the wife of his bosom—the
mother of his children. It carried him back—yes way back to the time he
led his Amy to the altar. He remembered the first born of that happy
union. He remembered of dancing his little Thomas on his knee, and
hearing him speak those soul-inspiring words “Pa-pa.” He remembered of
this boy growing to be a man. He remembered of hearing him say “Father, I
love Mary Wallace, and for her I will forsake father, mother and country.
For her and with her I will go to America.” He remembered of saying, (it
still rang in his ears,) “Leave your home! Leave my house! Never intrude
your person on my presence again, or darken my door with your shadow.” He
remembered Thomas’s last words:

“Father, as you wish, so shall it be. Farewell, father, forever,
farewell.”

He remembered that he had learned that Thomas and Mary had a child. They
called it——

Oh, my God! he exclaimed. How can I speak that name?

You mean Amy, replied the Lieutenant.

Yes, I mean Amy, my grand-daughter. Is she dead also?

Walter Wallace believes that she lives, and that we shall see her, said
Cora.

At the sound of this name the Admiral fairly raved, and bringing his cane
down on the table exclaimed:

Curse Walter Wallace! Don’t mention his name again in my house! I was
inquiring about my grand-daughter, Amy. What do you know about her.

Nothing, father, but what Walter Wallace has——

Stop! cried the Admiral, raising his cane as if to strike Cora. I forbid
the mention of that name in my house!

But father, it is only through him that we can learn of Amy. Father,
request him to come here and tell us what he knows about her.

Request—ah—Do you think that I can make my voice heard across the
Atlantic in one breath? and that he could step from there here the next?

Father, said Cora, he is already here. It was he that plunged into the
river and saved the life of Lord Wallace.

He saved the life of Lord Wallace—ah—curse him! Curse the day he was
born! The old man fell back heavily in his chair, his cane dropped to the
floor, and his right hand sought the region of his heart.

A return of his old complaint! exclaimed Cora excitedly.

Admiral Powers is carried to his room, and the family physician is soon
at his side. He seemed unconscious, yet intelligence beamed in his
countenance. His eyes opened and gazed at the different objects in the
room. His lips moved as if trying to talk.

Raise me up, he said.

He was raised up. Then by a mighty effort he clasped his hands, closed
his eyes and said:

Let me pray.

That was a mental prayer, not heard on earth, but answered in heaven. For
nearly an hour he lay in the same attitude, his lips faintly moving.

Thus did Admiral Powers manfully fight his last battle. This battle was
between himself, his nature, and his God.

Doctor, said the Lieutenant, we await your directions.

The doctor replied:

I have no medicine that will cure this disorder. I can only direct that
you prepare for the change that must soon take place. Your father has but
a few days—perhaps hours to live. If he has any requests or bequests to
make, now is his time to make them.

Satisfaction smiled in his countenance. Intelligence beamed in his eyes.
He spoke:

Doctor, you are right. My malady is beyond your skill. The heart that
has beat for over sixty years, has burst. It can beat but a few times
more. The valves in the pump have weakened, and soon the ship must go
down. I want to float a little longer—just a little longer. For the last
hour I have been sailing over the seas of my boyhood, my manhood and the
channels of mature age. I can plainly see how, when and where I wrecked
all my earthly happiness, and as a guide to all others who are compelled
to embark on this sea, I hold up this chart: “Parents, always advise, but
never control your children in their choice of their help-mate for life.”
It was on this rock I struck, and on this rock lies my wreck, and under
this wreck lay my children. May God forgive me.

The pump is working better now. I hope it will not choke again until I
get my sails trimmed and my anchor ready to cast. Lieutenant, send for
Lord Wallace. Send for his and my grand-son. Tell them it is my dying
request. Send for my lawyer, as I have some changes to make in my will.
Now, friends, let me rest until they come.

The Lieutenant beckoned Cora aside.

Write a note to Captain Davis. Tell him that the Admiral is dying and
requests him to come here. I will see Walter and Lord Wallace.

The Lieutenant went directly to the home of Frost, where he found Walter
and Jones. Calling Walter aside, he said:

Your grand-father Powers has but a short time to live and wishes to see
you before he expires. Frost will show you the way. Enquire for Cora and
wait in the parlor until I come. I go to request the attendance of Lord
Wallace.

Will I be welcome? asked Walter.

Yes, responded the Lieutenant, and then left.

On arriving there, he met the party leaving to go on board of the
Reindeer. Taking Lord Wallace aside, he explained to him the situation,
and requested his immediate attendance.

I will go with you, Lieutenant, but first let me write a note to Captain
Davis.

That has already been done, replied the Lieutenant. Captain Davis will be
there.

But my grand-son. Where is he?

On his way to witness his grand-father’s death. But let us move on.

On the way they notified the family lawyer that his services were needed
at the Admiral’s.

He hung the green bag over his arm, and all three walked to the house of
death. Cora met them at the door and conducted them to the parlor, where
they found the family physician.

How is your patient, doctor? exclaimed the Lieutenant.

He sleepeth.

Dead? exclaimed the Lieutenant.

No, not dead, but sleeping quietly. We have nothing to do but wait and
watch. If he awakes from this sleep, he may live for some hours—perhaps
some days.

Again Cora goes to the door and admits Walter and his two friends.

This way, she said, and conducted them to the library. Then taking Walter
by the hand said:

You have arrived in time to see your grand-father alive. Follow me.

She opened the door, and by a wave of the hand ordered the servants to
depart.

Thus, child and grand-child were alone with the dying. His face was
flushed, yet there were no signs of pain or discontent. Walter’s feelings
were deeply aroused. Before him lay the father of his long dead mother.
The sight carried him back to the events on the Callicoon, where he had
often seen his mother, on bended knee, pouring out her soul to God in
behalf of him who was now dying before him. Where he had heard her say:

“Father in Heaven, forgive him; he knows not what he has done!”

Can I do less? Yes, grand-father, I forgive you. For my sake—for my
parents’ sake, I forgive you. And while life lasts, I will kiss the lips
that have often kissed my mother, and he instinctively bent over the
dying man.

Hist! said Cora. He wakes.

The Admiral opened his eyes and attempted to raise up.

Gently, grand-father, gently. Let me help you, said Walter.

Grand-father—who calls me grand-father? exclaimed the dying man.

This, said Cora, is Walter, the son of Amelia, the young man we spoke to
you about—the one that saved the life of Lord Wallace.

Then throw open the shutters and let in the light. Come closer, boy—come
closer. Let me look into your eyes before the wreck goes down. Yes, I
see. There are your mother’s soft, blue eyes, and your father’s manly
form. Where is the lawyer?

In the parlor, father, said Cora.

I wish to see him alone.

Jenks, said the Admiral feebly, have you brought my will with you?

I have it here, replied the man of briefs.

Add a codicil by which my children and grand-children share equally. Draw
a draft in favor of my grand-son, Walter Wallace, for one thousand pounds.

The draft was presented and signed.

Now get one of those blank commissions and fill it out in the second
grade.

It was a great effort for the Admiral to sign it on account of pain.

There, he said as he threw the pen down. That is my last official act.
Place the draft and commission in an envelope directed to Captain Davis
with directions that it shall not be opened until the morning of the day
on which the Reindeer shall start on her next voyage.

It shall be done, said the lawyer.

The Admiral beckoned them all to come near.

My earthly business is completed, he said. Now let me bid my children and
friends farewell.

The folding doors opened, and in walked the Lieutenant, followed by Cora,
Walter, Lord Wallace and Captain Davis. The Admiral extended his hand and
said:

My grand-son, can you forgive the wrong that I have done you and yours?

Yes, grand-father, Walter replied, in the name of, and in behalf of my
mother, I forgive you.

Did your mother speak of me? Did she bless or curse me?

She loved and prayed for you.

The old man, still holding Walter by the hand, fell back on his pillow
exhausted. In a moment he opened his eyes and extended his other hand.

My Lord, addressing Lord Wallace, I forgive. Am I forgiven?

God be my Judge! exclaimed Lord Wallace. As I hope to be forgiven, so do
I forgive you.

Then, said the Admiral, I will perform my last act, and I call upon all
present to witness my last words. Here, in the presence of my God and
these witnesses, I own and acknowledge the youth I hold by the hand to be
my lawful heir—the son of my daughter Amelia. Captain Davis, I resign him
to your care. Lay me down. My sails are spread for a distant clime. The
rigging is taut. My anchor is hove for the last cruise. Jordan’s waters
roll smoothly across the valley of death. Angels are my pilots. They know
the course and all the reefs and rocks under the swells. Angels lead me.
They are the children that went before me. They clasp my hand and press
it to their hearts. Yes, it is they—it is Thomas and Amelia. Cast off,
men—cast off! I am homeward bound. My eye is on the Polar Star. My anchor
holds—yes it holds——

Here his voice became inaudible, but his lips moved. His voice is heard
once more:

Peace, be still! and he fell back on his couch, dead.

The intelligence that Admiral Powers was dead soon spread, and before
sun-down the public buildings were draped in mourning and the shipping in
the harbor had their flags at half mast.

Lord Wallace called the Lieutenant aside:

The reception on board of the Reindeer to-night, I presume will be
deferred.

Yes, replied the Lieutenant. Yet it will be necessary for me to go on
board, as Cora informed me that Walter was to meet me there at eleven.

Why not meet at my house and bring Cora with you? By the way, where is my
grand-son?

He disappeared at the moment of my father’s death, and has not been seen
since.

What caused him to leave so abruptly? Perhaps he thought that the garb of
a common sailor was not in keeping with his present station.

I do not think that was the reason, my Lord. I think he was determined
not to leave the company of Tom and Jack. He has undertaken the difficult
task of keeping them sober while we remain in port. But here comes
Captain Davis.

A warm and friendly greeting took place between Captain Davis and Lord
Wallace.

I think, said Davis, that the three have gone to Frost’s house. Let us
join them.

Then they all started.

What is it, asked Wallace, that has caused this attachment between the
sailors and my grand-son? Let us step into this club house where you can
relate his history as far as you know it.

The Lieutenant then related Walter’s history, commencing with the happy
hours on the Callicoon, and ending with the death scene of his father.
During this recital, Lord Wallace became very emotional, and it was with
difficulty that he could suppress his feelings. When the mutiny on the
wharf was recited, he could not control himself.

Brave boy? he exclaimed. He is a hero well worth the name of Wallace.

The parties then went to the residence of Jack Frost, where they found
Walter and his two friends.

Jack had related to his wife and children the part that Walter had taken
in his behalf concerning the mutiny, and ended by saying that he and his
friend Tom Jones had pledged themselves never again to taste, touch or
handle rum.

At the time of the arrival of Captain Davis and party, Frost and his
friends were eating dinner. And here Lord Wallace had the opportunity
of seeing the fruit of love among the lowly. He could see there joy and
contentment that had never entered his house.

He thought to himself:

This is the way my banished children lived in the wilds of America. They
loved, and lived on love. Woe unto him that undertakes to thwart that
attribute.

This, said Captain Davis is your grand-son, and this is Lord Wallace,
your grand-father.

Walter extended his hand, but Lord Wallace faltered.

Can you, he said, take my hand and call me “grand-father,”—I who have so
cruelly wronged your parents—who so madly drove them from my house?

But not from your heart, Walter responded.

No—no, boy, throwing his arm about him. They have always occupied a place
there. They were forgiven long ago—yet I had nothing to forgive. I, and I
only was the one to ask forgiveness.

You were forgiven, and that forgiveness is recorded in heaven, where your
children now are. Your children loved and prayed for you.

Bless you, my son—may God bless you. And now, here in the presence of
these witnesses, I receive you as my grand-son and heir, the son of
Amelia and William Wallace.

Excuse me, said Lieutenant Powers, for this interruption, but the joy of
this meeting has caused us to forget our duty to the dead. We must make
arrangements for my father’s funeral.

The Navy will attend to that, rejoined Captain Davis. And as the object
of the meeting on board of the Reindeer is accomplished by the meeting
of grand-father and grand-son at this place, we may as well talk of the
future. I have learned that I shall soon be ordered to America. Will your
grand-son accompany me?

Certainly not, replied Lord Wallace. He will remain with me and take the
position in society that he is entitled to. And the first thing to be
done is to go to my tailor’s and dress himself in costume becoming his
rank.

Quick glances passed between Captain Davis and his Lieutenant. They knew
where Walter’s heart was. They knew that it was in America. They knew
that he would rather give up his new found relatives with all their
wealth and titles than to abandon his search for Amy. Walter saw the
dilemma he was in, and he declared his purpose at once. He said:

My Lord, my life has been one continual struggle, and the object of that
struggle has been to find my friends. That has been in part accomplished
to-day. But my struggle is not over—my mission is incomplete. I must
struggle on until I find my Amy.

At the mention of that name, Lord Wallace turned pale and fell back in
his chair.

Amy—Amy, what know you of Amy? Is my secret out? Tell me boy—tell me what
you know of Amy? Know you that Amy was your grand-mother’s name? Know you
that I drove her mad? Know you, that in driving my children from their
homes I drove their mother to her grave? Oh, my God! Oh, my God! I am
crushed! Amy, the companion of my youth—the mother of my children—driven
out—dead—dead—dead!

And fainting, he fell to the floor.

Surprise was depicted on all countenances but one. Walter now remembered
that his grand-mother’s name had never been mentioned, and whether dead
or alive he did not know. But from the anguish of his grand-father, he
was satisfied that the secret of his grand-mother’s death was purposely
kept from him. Had his grand-father added to his other crimes that of
murder? Had he killed the grand-mother of his Amy? If so, he would
denounce him and leave England at once. Captain Davis and the Lieutenant
were speechless. Frost eyed the old man with more than ordinary interest,
and Walter did not know what to say. Presently the fainting man revived.

Come here, boy, and sit close by my side. Let me tell you all, and then
let me die. The Amy you speak of, was my wife—your grand-mother. She
favored the marriage of your father to Amelia Powers. I forbid it, and
when I heard that they had defied me and set at nought my counsel, I
became outraged and lost my reason. I wrote to your father, forbidding
him ever again to darken my door. Fool!—brute I was, but I did it. My
wife interfered, and in my rage, I so far forgot myself as to strike her,
and order her to leave and follow her disgraced children. Not thinking,
knowing or caring for the consequences, I went to my room, and with
brandy, drowned my passion and eased my conscience. In the morning my
reason returned. I saw my mistake, and at once decided to apologize to
my wife and send for my children to return. I sent for my wife, but the
answer came back that she could not be found. On examination it was found
that her wardrobe, jewels and money were missing. On the table she had
left a note:

“Farewell, Walter, farewell until you forgive your children. Farewell. I
can sleep more sweetly on the bottom of the Thames than I can on a pillow
of down in your castle. Farewell.”

My eyes were now open, and I could see the iniquity of the great wrong
I had committed. Remorse choked me. Visions of wife and child haunted
me. The demons, devils and damned of hell pursued me. I fled—I knew not
where. The next five years was a blank. When memory returned, everything
appeared strange. The doors were bolted and the windows barred. I was in
a mad house.

On inquiry, I learned that during my confinement, but one person had
visited me. But who she was, or where she came from, none could tell. She
called once after my reason was restored, and on learning of that fact,
said “Thank God!” and left.

I immediately returned to my possessions, and instituted inquiries about
my wife and children. I learned that they were all drowned by a flood in
America, and that my wife was dead.

Not so fast, old man! ejaculated Frost between the puffs of his pipe. You
heard what is not true. Your wife was not dead.

Not dead? exclaimed his Lordship jumping to his feet. Not dead? How know
you that?

Now, old man, don’t get excited. Just sit down and let me tell you
something you don’t know. But before I start on this cruise I want to
be sure that I have got good bottom to anchor on and the right signals
to hoist in case of danger, and if you can see and know the signals, I
will weigh anchor and sail in. What do you say to that—jerking a piece of
canvas from the wall. Can you call that signal by name?

Amy—my long lost Amy! he exclaimed. Tell me—oh tell me does she still
live?

Now, old man, I told you I would tell you something you didn’t know, but
you must keep quiet. The best ships will drag anchor in a gale. So don’t
get up a breeze until we get clear of the headland.

My good man, don’t keep me in suspense. If you know anything of my lost
wife, tell at once.

That is just what I am going to do, but you mustn’t hurry me. It’s
dangerous to get in a great hurry. Many a ship has been wrecked because
some one has got in too great of a hurry. In fact, my Lord, I think that
if you hadn’t hurried things so fast this meeting would not have taken
place in my house.

Oh, good man, you torture me. Is she alive?

Well, if you will just keep still and give me time to think, I think
I shall be able to convince you. But an old salt like me, wants to
know that the ship is well-rigged, ballasted and manned before he goes
into a skirmish, and I think from that cloud and the fresh breeze that
comes from that door, that we shall have a skirmish, if not a general
engagement. You know, my Lord, that it is an old saying, that “When Greek
meets Greek, then comes the tug of war.” Now I don’t think that Greek
is going to meet Greek here, but the way that craft is sailing, I think
there will be a collision. Shiver my timbers, old man, but you must have
had a jolly time anchored in that mad house for five years. But it may be
a relief to know that during that time the craft you deserted was safely
anchored here. It is a short yarn and quickly told.

Let me see. I say, wife. It was twenty-five years ago to-night that you
heard something fall on the stoop, and on opening the door and looking
out, saw a well-dressed woman lying there. And now, old man, I want to
say here and now that sailors and their wives have hearts, and as long as
there is a cent in the locker or a crust in the cupboard, they will share
it with the poor. So you see, Mary saw this lady laying there and she
called:

Jack, she called, come and lend a hand to tow this cast-away into port.

And then Mary and I, lubber, lifted with all our might and main until we
landed her in the after cabin, and stowed her away in the lower bunk.
She appeared to be a well-built, clean-cut craft, about thirty years off
the stocks. Her eyes kept continually rolling, but her voice was silent.
We supposed that she was a woman of the street—some poor, unfortunate
creature, who had no home to go to. My wife said:

I don’t care, Jack, who she is, or what she is. We will take care of her
till morning.

She was now lying on her beam ends, and it looked as if she would remain
docked for some time. But presently, her sails began to flutter, and in
a short time she righted. She requested the privilege of remaining with
us for a short time and promised to pay us. She then informed us who she
was, and related the causes that drove her from her home, which are about
as his Lordship related. She and my wife fell in love with each other,
and from that day to this have been fast friends.

This house, at that time, was a rickety old thing. She bought it for us
and put it in its present condition. In addition to that, she purchased
these costly pictures. Besides, she took charge of the education of my
daughter. She was known to the world as Mrs. Winter. When she went abroad
she was disguised. It was she that frequently called to see you at mad
house. She is still alive, and under this roof. Mary, open the door.

The door leading to the adjoining room opened, and there stood Lady
Wallace.

My wife! My long lost Amy! exclaimed Lord Wallace, passionately throwing
his arms around her.

We will not attempt to describe the scene that this meeting and
reconciliation produced. Suffice it to say that he pressed her to his
bosom and prayed for her forgiveness.

Walter had been deeply interested in the narrative related by Jack Frost.
Before him stood his and Amy’s grand-mother encircled within the arms of
his grand-father. Tears of joy ran down her cheeks, and her bosom swelled
with emotion.

God is good! she exclaimed. Husband and child restored to me in a day.
Come to my arms, boy you are the picture of your mother.

Walter embraced his grand-mother, but was too full of emotion to speak.

Friends, said Captain Davis, let us return to the object of this meeting.
Does Walter return to America with me, or will he remain with you?

I have already answered and decided that question, replied Walter.
Although we have found the Amy my grand-father thought I alluded to still
there is another Amy, the daughter of Thomas and Mary Powers.

Is she living? asked Lady Wallace.

I do not positively know, replied Walter, but I think so.

He then gave the reason why he thought she was alive, and concluded by
stating that he intended to return to America and prosecute his search
until he was satisfied.

To this Lord and Lady Wallace consented. The reconciliation was complete.

It was arranged that Jack Frost’s wife and daughter should accompany Lady
Wallace to her old home and remain with her until Jack returned from his
next voyage to America.

We will pass over the incidents attending the funeral of Admiral Powers,
by simply saying that he was buried according to his rank in the Navy,
and followed to his grave amid the belching of cannon and the tramp of
citizens.

Both Lord and Lady Wallace tried to induce Walter to enter London
society, but he utterly refused. He even refused to change his sailor
suit for a citizen’s dress.

After making arrangements with his lawyer to look after his interest in
his grand-father Powers’ estate, he and Cora made a short journey to
France and Scotland, and returned a few days before the Reindeer was to
sail.

There had been many surmises as to what was contained in the package
handed by Admiral Powers to Captain Davis, with directions that it should
not be opened until the morning of the sailing of the Reindeer.

The morning for the sailing of the ship had arrived, and the Reindeer
presented a beautiful appearance, being neatly dressed with flags.

The men formed in little parties on deck, as the parting between husband
and wife, and parents and children was about to take place, among which
was Jack Frost, wife and daughter. In the cabin was the Captain, Cora
and Lord and Lady Wallace. The time for the opening of the mysterious
package had arrived. Captain Davis was about to break the seal, when he
discovered that Walter was not present.

Where is Walter? he asked. He has an interest in the contents of this
package, and should be present when it is read. Lieutenant, please call
him to the cabin.

The Lieutenant found him with Tom Jones, Jack Frost and wife.

The Captain requests your company in the cabin. They are about to break
the seal of the package delivered to the Captain by your grand-father
Powers.

Walter reluctantly obeyed the summons, for he had resolved on his return
trip to mess with his friends Tom and Jack.

The seal was removed and the package opened. Captain Davis read the
first, which directed the Bank of England to pay to Walter Wallace
£1,000. The Captain then read the second paper and handed it to Walter,
saying:

This was the last official act of your grand-father.

Walter took the paper, read it carefully and then remarked:

I am not worthy of this at present, Captain. Please take it, and when I
am able to perform the duties of that office, I will accept it, and not
before.

What is it? asked the Lieutenant and Cora in the same breath.

It is his appointment as Second Lieutenant in the English Navy, and
assigned to this ship, and he is qualified to enter upon his duties at
once, replied Captain Davis.

The whole party then congratulated him upon his appointment, and urged
him to accept. But it was not until his friends Tom and Jack put in their
oar that he would consent, and then it was only conditionally.

I accept this office for the present, but I shall resign it if it in any
way interferes with my plans in searching for the absent one in America.

I do not ask, neither do I consent that you should abandon the search you
have in view for that lost child, for something tells me that my lost
child will be found at the same time.

Bang! went the gun to give warning to those on shore to come on board,
and to those on board that the time for parting had come—when wives must
bid their husbands good-bye, and lovers renew their troth.

The parting between Walter and his grand-father was of the most
affectionate character. He conducted his grand-mother to the boat and
passed her to Lieutenant Powers. Lord Wallace followed, but before
entering the boat said:

I regret, my boy, that we must part on so short acquaintance, yet I
appreciate and approve of the motive that actuates you, and hope that you
will be successful. And in case you succeed in finding the girl, you can
assure her that she will be welcomed and received as my grand-daughter.
I doubt not but that your search will be thorough, and to that end, I
ask you to receive this package, and use the contents to further the
enterprise. And now good bye for the present.

Depend upon it, said Walter. The whole country between the Hudson and
Delaware Rivers shall be searched, and Amy shall be found if alive. But I
must detain you no longer. The vessel is moving.

As they sailed down the Thames toward the Atlantic, Walter’s mind
naturally reverted to the contrast between his past and present
condition. But a few weeks before, he was a penniless boy. Now he was the
acknowledged son and heir of two of the first families of the nation.
Then he was an invited guest on board of the Reindeer, dependent upon
the bounty of Captain Davis. Now he was a Lieutenant in His Majesty’s
Service. Then there were grave doubts whether he would be received by
his kindred. Now the relationship between them was established. Now he
had the opportunity and means to prosecute his search for Amy. Yet, he
thought, all this work and wealth without her is a bubble, that floats
for a moment and then disappears. But I forget the package handed me. I
wonder what it contains.

He breaks the seal, and within finds a £1,000 note on the Bank of
England, and on a piece of paper is written:

“Please accept this token of my regard. From your grand-father. I feared
that your manly pride and self-independence would incite you to reject
the gift, which would have pained me. Therefore I hand it to you at the
last moment. Take it and use it as you think best.”

We will pass over the incidents of the voyage between Europe and America,
as nothing unusual occurred. They had a quick and prosperous voyage, and
entered Philadelphia harbor just as the sun was setting, about the middle
of October.

By the time the ship was safely moored, it was surrounded by small boats
containing the friends of those on board, among which were surveyor Webb
and wife. Captain Davis met them at the gang-way and conducted them to
the cabin. After the ordinary civilities were over, Webb informed them
that after the departure of the Reindeer he had the bodies of the dead
mutineers buried in the potters field, and that Sambo was buried in his
own lot.

But where is my boy Walter? he inquired.

On duty, replied the Captain, but he will soon be here.

At this instant Walter made his appearance and saluted both Webb and his
wife with an affectionate kiss.

Father, he said, more than a father—how much I owe you. How can I ever
repay you?

Repay me? replied Webb. I am more than repaid now to see you dressed in
a Lieutenant’s uniform, and performing the duties of that office. This
gives me a satisfaction that money could not purchase.

Webb was then informed of the incidents that had taken place on the
voyage to England, Walter’s injury and unconsciousness, his return to
reason, his acknowledgement by both of his grand-parents, and that the
object of his return to America was to search for Amy.

And where do you intend searching? asked Webb.

The entire country between the Hudson and Delaware Rivers, replied Walter.

That is where I found you, and where you took your first lessons in
surveying. Had Amy been in those parts, we would have heard of her. I am
afraid, boy, that this will be a fruitless search. What reason have you
for believing that she is in those parts?

Instinct—not reason, tells me that she is there. I have seen her on
the mountain top surrounded with hawks, but protected by an aged and
intelligent Indian.

At this remark, Webb’s countenance brightened. It was evident that old
memories had awakened in his imagination. He was again surveying the
Minisink country and taking the grand scenery of the Delaware Valley, and
with confidence replied:

The mountain, the rocks and the hawks that you saw in your delirium, I
have seen with my natural eyes. It is in the Minisink country, and the
rocks that you describe are on the north side of the Delaware River,
three miles west of Machackamack, and near the camp of the Cahoonshees,
and the Indian you describe can be no other than Cahoonshee himself.

Cahoonshee! exclaimed Captain Davis and wife in the same breath. Why that
is the name of the Indian that sailed from London to America with me over
twenty years ago.

He promised to make inquiries about my lost boy. We landed him at the
Palisades at sun-rise one morning, and that is the last I have ever heard
of him.

I knew him well, replied Webb. He was the last of his tribe and lived
on the Steneykill. The Cahoonshees were a small tribe, and lived on the
mountains between the Neversink and Delaware Rivers.

And it is my determination to search that part of the Delaware Valley for
Amy, replied Walter.

Then remain on board of the Reindeer until you arrive at Kingston Point,
on the Hudson River, and commence the search from there. It will be
but four days travel to Hawk’s Nest Mountains, and then you are in the
country of the Cahoonshees.

The Reindeer remained at New York a few days, and then proceeded up the
Hudson to Kingston Point.

This was a sandy point of land extending out in the river. South of the
point were extensive mud flats through which flowed the Wallkill River,
of which the Rosendale is a tributary. The head waters of the Rosendale
was the north-east end of the Mamakating Valley, and about twenty-five
miles from the Delaware River. About one mile north of Kingston Point,
was situated a rocky island about half-a-mile long and four hundred feet
wide, and about a thousand feet from the west shore of the river, which
at this point is about one mile wide.

Opposite Kingston Point, on the east bank of the Hudson, was a small
settlement called Becktown. In after years a man by the name of Rhine
married a Beck. Then the place was called Rhinebeck, which name it still
retains.

About one mile from the shore was a large stone house in which Judge
Hasbrook lived.

The island above described was occupied by a man called Shell. He was
far advanced in years, and lived alone on the island and held but little
intercourse with the outside world. Why he lived a hermit’s life was
unknown. He lived by fishing and hunting. His garden furnished him with
vegetables, and drift-wood with fuel.

A few days after the Reindeer anchored, Judge Hasbrook gave a ball in
honor of the officers, and the principal part of the inhabitants were
invited. Walter was anxious to start on his contemplated journey, as
Tom Jones and Jack Frost were to accompany him. He felt no interest in
balls and parties, and would gladly have excused himself, but through the
solicitation of Mrs. Davis and Cora, he consented to defer the journey
until after the ball.

A large party had assembled at the Judge’s house, which included all
the beaux and belles for miles around, in which all seemed to enjoy
themselves except Walter. His interests were toward the setting sun and
the land of the Cahoonshees. He could not be prevailed upon to take a
part in the dance, but remained a silent spectator. Cora tried to rouse
him to at least allow himself to be introduced to the ladies present.
Failing in this, she took him by the arm and said:

Come, Walter, this will never do for a Lieutenant in the English Navy.
Come and take a walk with me. Let us go to the arbor and pick some grapes.

Certainly, he replied. That will be in keeping with my thoughts, and by
the moonlight they walked toward the grape arbor.

On the way they met Tom and Jack loaded down with the luscious fruit.

There, said Walter. Sit down and pick and eat. That is easier than to
climb after them.

I prefer climbing, and top fruit is the best, laughingly replied Cora,
and off she skipped like a young fawn.

Cora, said Walter, some lurking Indian might run off with you, and then
you would be cured of your romance.

[Illustration: CORA AT THE GRAPE ARBOR.]

Not a bit of it, she replied. I wish that one of the red-skins would
steal me. That would be romantic indeed. And to think that you and the
whole ship’s company would be hunting after me. That would be what the
sailors call a stern chase, and then she disappeared behind the arbor.

Instantly a blanket is thrown over her head, and she is carried, she
knows not where.

She supposed it was a trick got up by Walter to scare her, and to carry
out the joke, submitted willingly, and it was not until she found herself
laid in the bottom of a canoe that she awoke to a sense of danger. She
now realized that she was in a boat of some kind, sailing on the water.



CHAPTER XVI.

    The Bee Hunters—Drake and Rolla on the Trail—Call of the Tree
    Toad—Answer of the Blue Jay.


We left Drake and the two Quicks on the Steneykill, returning with honey.
When they discovered moccasin tracks and heard Rolla’s peculiar bark,
they became alarmed for the safety of those at the cabin, and hurried
forward. Rolla rushed ahead and commenced an uncommon continued howl.

That is a new howl, said Drake.

And has a new meaning, replied Cahoonshee.

They hurried forward and Rolla continued to howl.

When they approached they saw Rolla stretched out at full length on the
ground, and the cat Walt lay dead by his side with an arrow through its
head.

The Great Spirit have mercy on those at the cabin, exclaimed Cahoonshee.

The cabin was soon reached, and there sat Betsy tied to her chair. She
was soon released and the parties informed of the capture of Amy by the
Stockbridge Indians.

Drake was much affected, and tears ran down his cheeks.

Fear not, we will save the girl, said Cahoonshee. You three take the dog
and go in search of the trail. Follow it as long as it goes west, but if
it turns east, send one of your number to me.

Drake and the Quicks shouldered their guns and started, Rolla taking the
lead, and soon found the trail, which went nearly due west, toward the
Mongaup.

It would seem that the Indians made no effort to conceal their trail,
which for a long time puzzled the pursuing party. The sun was now down,
and the darkness of the night over-shadowed the forest. Yet, Rolla with
perfect confidence followed the trail until they came to Mongaup River.

Here the hunters found themselves baffled. They went two miles up on the
east side of the River. Then crossing, searched back to the point where
they commenced, but failed to find any sign of the trail.

Then they resolved to return to the cabin, fill their knapsacks and renew
the search in the morning.

After the hunters left, Cahoonshee went out and shot some rabbits, and
with their brains preserved the skin of the cat Walt.

It was after midnight when the hunters returned. They informed Cahoonshee
of the finding of the trail and losing it again at the Mongaup.

You lost time in searching down-stream, he said. They went up the River
until they found a small stream, then they followed that to its source.
But somewhere between where they reached the River and Mongaup Falls,
they had to leave the River and pass over land. They may have gone up the
Bushkill as far as the Falls. But there they would be compelled to leave
the stream. Fill your knapsacks, and at sun-rise start for the mouth of
the Bushkill. Follow it up to the Falls. From there go to my cabin on
the Steneykill, where I will meet you.

As soon as the day broke, Drake, Tom and Rolla started, and were at the
mouth of the Bushkill at sun-rise. Rolla seemed to understand the object
of the search, and applied his nose to every stone that lay above the
water. He had not been gone long before he gave three loud barks.

He has the trail! Drake fairly screamed.

But Rolla was soon out of sight and was not heard again for some moments.
Then he was heard again and continued barking until Drake and Tom came up
to him at the foot of the falls.

It was evident that they had found the trail. There was the remains of
their camp fire, strewed with fish bones.

What is that? said Tom, pointing to a small rock that leaned against the
side of the mountain.

That, replied Drake, is Amy’s writing:

“Gone to the cave from whence you came. Amy.”

That is plain. Let us go up the Falls and over the ridge to Cahoonshee’s
cabin.

They found Cahoonshee and the elder Quick at the cabin, and a warm
breakfast prepared for them.

Cahoonshee was informed of the finding of the trail and the course it
took.

There is but one more thing to learn, he said. They will cross the river
at Kingston. From here to Kingston there are three trails. The first is
the old Kingston trail. But they will not take that, as there are white
settlers every few miles, and they would not take their captive that way.
The other trails are farther west and are seldom traveled. It will take
them two days longer than if they went by the Kingston trail. We must
try and get to the Hudson ahead of them. The whites are thickly settled
there, and we can get all the assistance we want.

Now, Drake, you, Tom and Rolla take their trail and follow it until you
can determine which route they have taken. Then go direct to the Yah
House, and Quick and I will meet you there.

The boys were soon on the trail and followed it across Handy Hill, then
across the Neversink, then north, until they struck the western trail
leading to Kingston.

At this point they left the trail and took a north-easterly course to the
Yah House, where they arrived late in the evening and found Quick and
Cahoonshee there.

It was then determined to travel direct on the Kingston trail and head
the Indians off before they reached the river. If they failed in this, to
push forward to the cave.

We shall not stop to describe the incidents that happened to the
travelers from the Yah House to Kingston. Suffice it to say that they
traveled as fast as Cahoonshee’s health would permit. When within ten
miles of the Hudson River, they struck north-west, and after going about
two miles, Rolla gave the usual signal that he had discovered where Amy
had walked.

They followed the trail about four miles to a stream that emptied into
the Hudson, and here the trail was lost. The party divided and followed
down both sides of the stream until they reached the river, but no trail
was found.

Cunning dogs! exclaimed Cahoonshee. They have waded up or down stream.
But they will have to come to the shore somewhere. They can’t wade across
the river. They will have to steal a canoe or build a raft. They have
probably gone down stream. Let us follow them.

The sun was just setting, and dark clouds threatened a storm from the
south-west. A vivid flash of lightning lit up the forest and river. Rolla
sprang into the air and gave the usual three barks.

The dog either sees or smells something, said Cahoonshee. Look on the
river when the next flash comes.

Then came a gust of wind that bent the trees nearly to the ground, which
was followed by continuous lightning, and which lit up the river from
shore to shore. About a thousand feet from the shore was plainly to be
seen the canoe containing Amy and her captors.

Our chase is in vain, said Cahoonshee. The canoe cannot float long in
that stream. It will drive them on the rocks at the head of the island.
Let us build a raft and renew the search as soon as the storm is over.



CHAPTER XVII.

    The Storm—Buried in the River—Old Shell to the Rescue. Which is
    Which and What is What.


The Indians had scarcely left the shore when the storm broke upon them in
all its fury. The canoe had capacity for but six in still water. With its
present cargo, it sank to the gunwale.

The thunder roared, the lightning flashed, and the waves ran mountain
high. Earth, air and water seemed to be striving for the mastery. The
little canoe was tossed about on the surging foam like an egg shell in a
boiling caldron. The occupants realized their danger, yet remained cool
and collected and patiently awaited their doom. At last the Chief said:

We must leave the canoe. Perhaps with none on board but the women it will
float.

There was a small rope attached to one end of the canoe held by a toggle.
He caught this and jumped into the river, followed by the other four.

Amy saw at a glance that she had it in her power to free herself and
escape from the Indians. What could be easier than to pull the toggle and
cast the Indians adrift. Then her conscience checked her.

That would drown them, and that would be murder. But life, liberty and
self-preservation soon overruled conscience. She pulled the toggle and
the Indians were adrift.

Springing to her feet, she applied the paddle, going, where she knew
not—cared not—if she could get away from the savages.

Once, and once only, did she look back, and by the lightning’s flash saw
them struggling in the rolling swell.

Shell was sitting in his cabin door, smoking his pipe, and listening to
the roar of the elements, when a flash of lightning revealed to his view
a canoe making its way to the rift of rocks. At the second glance, he saw
a person manfully working a paddle.

Zounds! That chap, whoever he is, has got good stuff in him. But I guess
he don’t know the points of the compass. That course will carry him on
the rocks. He will be drowned, and the canoe dashed to pieces. It is but
little Old Shell can do, but I will do that little.

Taking a brand from the fire, he lit a pile of pine knots that was piled
on the beach. Suddenly the wind turned to the north east, and this made
the situation of the canoe still more dangerous.

On—on it came—first on the crest of a wave, then hid from sight in the
bottom of the swell.

Pull to the west! Pull to the west! cried Old Shell. But the sound of his
voice was drowned by the incessant slash of the water. Nearer and nearer
the fatal rock is approached. The canoe is raised on the top of the
crest, and as the water recedes, it strikes amidships and is broken into
fragments. The next wave drives the wreck and occupants ashore. Shell
stood ready, and caught them before the undertow could carry them back.
Taking one under each arm, he carried them into his cabin and laid them
down before the fire.

The girls were wet but not seriously injured, and were soon on their feet.

The reader must remember that, although Amy knew that another person had
been added to their number, she had not seen Cora until her face was
revealed by the light of the fire.

The first glance amazed her. She saw in her the likeness of herself as
plainly as if she had looked in a glass.

Cora was equally astonished, and for the time doubted her own identity.

Neither of them seemed to be inclined to speak, or rather each of them
was waiting for the other to say something. This surprised the old man,
who had relit his pipe, and was puffing away in the corner.

He commenced:

I say, gals, I suppose that this is new quarters for you. But, sailors
say “any port in a storm.” But I guess this a safer place than the one
you were being tossed about on out there on the rocks. But you are safe
now, and in the morning I will take you on shore. It was lucky for you
that I was at home, and I did not get home any too soon. If I had stayed
at the Judge’s any longer I could not have got home before morning.

What Judge’s do you mean, my good man? said Cora.

I mean Judge Hasbrook. They had a dance there last night, and the
Admiral’s daughter got lost, strayed or stolen. All the people were
looking for her, but she could not be found. Men on horses were sent out
on every road. The marines were ordered from the ship to scour the woods,
but it was no go. They could not find her. They said that she was a good,
but dare-devil of a girl, and there was no telling what she might do.
Some of the scouts returned and reported that about the middle of the
afternoon, four men, with a black dog was seen about two miles from the
Judge’s house, and they feared the girl had been stolen by them.

Amy could scarcely control her feelings on hearing this, but did not
think it wise to state who she thought the party were.

The girls were now standing in front of the fire drying their clothes.

Girls, said Old Shell, you smoke like musk rats drying in the sun. I
think you had better change your clothes.

I have no others, said Amy.

Nor I, rejoined Cora.

Be easy as two that, replied the old man. I have them, and think they
will fit exactly. I have not always lived alone. I once had daughters
that were as smooth-faced as you are, and as pretty as you appear. I have
their clothes here, (pulling out a large chest.) See if these clothes
will fit.

The girls, both from interest and curiosity, stepped toward the trunk.

Here, said the old man lifting a garment out of the trunk. Here is a
shir—shir—what do you call it? Well, it is a shir-shirt.

The girls blushed, and the old man noticed it.

Here, girls, you go through the trunk. It is so long since I have had
anything to do with women’s-ware, that I have forgotten their names and
how they are worn. There are two red flannel dresses that look exactly
alike. Put them on, and while you are fixing up, I will go out and look
at the river.

The old man walked to the head of the island. The storm had ceased, and
the moon was shining brightly. The waves continued to roll over the rift
and dash against the rocks. Something appeared on the rift that had the
appearance of being a human being. On examination, there appeared to be
several of them all huddled in one mass. No signs of life were visible,
and the waves continued to pound their bodies against the rocks.

When the old man returned, he found the girls dressed in red flannel
suits, white aprons, blue stockings and gaudy hats, trimmed with white
and yellow feathers.

By jingo, he exclaimed. If you two girls wasn’t run in the same mould,
then I am no judge of human nature. Gosh darn it! If you don’t look so
much alike that I can’t tell which from which.

You are in error there, my good man. We are no relation. I never saw this
girl until I saw her here, remarked Cora.

How is that you both came on shore in the same boat and at the same time?

That is so. Yet I never saw her before.

Where do you belong, and how did you get in her company. This is a
mysterious mystery that I can’t unriddle. Hang me if I don’t believe that
you are two witches.

Oh no, my good man, we are not witches. I belong on board of the
Reindeer. I am the Admiral’s daughter—the dare-devil of a girl you
described. The one the marines were scouring the country to find. Yes, I
am Cora Powers.

Powers! exclaimed Amy excitedly, but said nothing more, yet thought much.

The old man remained silent a few moments, then said:

How came you in the canoe?

I was carried there by some one. I thought it was Tom and Jack, supposing
that the Lieutenant had told them to throw a blanket over me and carry me
off. For that reason I made no resistance, and lay in his arms quietly as
a babe on its mother’s breast. In fact, I enjoyed it, and when I lay in
the boat, I thought that I would be taken on board of the Reindeer, and
rather enjoyed it, to think how surprised they would be when they learned
that I could not be scared. When I was doused in the water, I took it as
a kind of a sailor baptism, and I don’t know yet what to make of it.

I don’t think, said the old man, that your friends had anything to do
with your departure.

And if they didn’t, who did? asked Cora.

The Indians, replied Amy.

What? Do you mean that I was carried off in the arms of an Indian and
laid in the canoe?

I do, said Amy. I saw it with my own eyes.

Cora was silent for a few moments, then said:

Then I have been stolen by the Indians and didn’t know it. There is no
romance about that, and I am the one who has been fooled. I have a good
notion to faint. I would if there was some one here to prevent my falling.

Young woman, this is no light affair. If they stole you they meant to
take your scalp or make your friends pay well for your ransom. But what
became of them? Are they prowling about now?

Amy turned her face away to hide her confusion, but the old man noticed
it.

I think, he said, that this girl knows more about the Indians than she is
willing to tell. Tell us, girl, where you last saw them.

Amy remained silent, dreading to tell where she last saw them, knowing
that it would lead to other questions.

Speak, as you value your life, said the old man. The storm is over, and
they will soon be down upon us.

Amy replied:

There were five of them, and they belonged to the Stockbridge tribe.

Stockbridge Indians! exclaimed Shell. Then we must expect no mercy, but
must prepare to defend ourselves, rising and seizing his gun that stood
in the corner.

This will stop one or more of them.

Have you another gun? inquired Amy. If so, I will stop another.

Here, said the old man opening a closet, is half a dozen guns, and I will
load them all.

Let me load them, said Amy.

Do you know how?

Amy took up the guns and loaded them in half the time the old man could.

There. I have loaded them all, and if they come, I can shoot them.

Are you the daughter of a hunter? asked old Shell.

I am the daughter of no one, but I know how to load and shoot a gun.

But you have not told us how you came to be in company with the Indians.

Tell us girl, let us know the worst, and then we can act for the best.

Amy replied:

Those Indians stole me from my home on the Shinglekill, and were taking
me to Stockbridge, and just as we were starting to cross the river, they
stole this girl. A storm arose, and the Indians jumped into the river to
lighten the canoe, and that is the last I saw of them.

If they got ashore anywhere, it must have been on this island. I will
take my gun and go out on the raft and look.

And I will take another and go with you, said Amy.

And I will take the rest and shoot them all at once, said Cora.

All parties being armed and equipped for the emergency, they marched for
the spot. It was low water, and the rocks were bare for several hundred
feet above the island.

You wait here, said the old man, and I will climb out on the rocks.

I see the Indians!—I see them! exclaimed Cora excitedly.

Where?

There! pointing.

The old man looked, and saw the same objects that he saw when he was out
before, and raised his gun.

Don’t shoot! They are all dead now. The life has been pounded out of them
on the rocks.

Don’t you believe that, girl. They are only playing possum, and will
go for your scalp at the first opportunity. Some of them may be on the
island now.

I see five, and there were but five. Let us go a little closer said Amy,
starting, and followed by the old man.

At every step the forms of the dusky Indians became more visible.

Careful, girl, careful. We have a treacherous foe to deal with.

We have the dead, and the dead only to deal with, replied Amy. They have
gone to the Indian’s last hunting ground.

The rock was reached, and there lay the bloated bodies of the five
Indians. They had caught hold of each other’s hair and around the waist.

Drowning men catch at straws, said the old man.

They had taken hold of each other for protection, and all had drowned in
each other’s embrace.

But where did this rope come from that is wound around them? asked Shell.

Amy kept silent. She knew too well where the rope came from.

Well girls, it is rather early in the morning for a funeral, but I think
we had better bury them now.

Where? asked Cora.

In a sailor’s grave he said. And taking his knife, cut the tangled rope
loose, and one by one, he threw them into the River to be food for the
fishes.

The parties now returned to the house.

Stay here, girls, and keep a good watch, and I will go toward the lower
end of the island. Some of them may have landed lower down. The dog would
swim ashore.

What dog? asked Amy.

The dog that was seen with the Indian that stole this girl, pointing
toward Cora.

Amy felt embarrassed for some moments, and then said:

My good man, I will tell you all I know about the Indians. I have
told you that they stole me at the Shinglekill, in the country of the
Cahoonshees. I had friends who followed me, and with them was my faithful
dog Rolla. It was that party that was seen by the party that went in
search of this girl, and they are all dead. To lighten the canoe, they
took hold of the rope that you saw about their bodies, and jumped
overboard. I pulled the toggle and cast them adrift. You know the rest.

Brave girl, said the old man seizing Amy’s hand. There are five less of
the murderous dogs. I wish that the whole tribe had been tied to that
rope. Girls, I have not always been what I now appear to be. I once had
a wife and a happy home. The first year of our marriage, she became the
mother of twins. They grew up to be young ladies. On my return home
one night, I found my house burned, and my wife and daughters dead
and scalped. The Stockbridge Indians did it. I could not live in that
desolate home where so many things reminded me of former days. I removed
to this island. The clothes you have on and the clothes you see in the
trunk were once worn by those I loved. But the Indians robbed me of all.
Stealing was their business. Years ago they stole an infant on this very
island almost from its mother’s arms, and from that day to this, Captain
Davis has mourned the loss of his child. Rewards have been offered and
search made among all the tribes, but no child found. It probably died
soon after it was stolen, as it had a mark on its breast that would have
led to its discovery if living.

What was the mark? asked Cora and Amy at the same time.

A ship, and the letters C. D. on the top, and E. N. on the bottom. If
you belong on board of the Reindeer, you should have heard them speak of
their child.

I have, repeatedly, replied Cora. And to-morrow we intended to start for
the Delaware Valley in search of him. Lieutenant Wallace was to be in
charge of the searching party.

Amy turned pale and staggered back. That name brought to her recollection
the days of her childhood. Her father, mother, and her home on the
Callicoon.

Both Cora and the old man noticed her emotions, and the struggle she was
making to suppress them.

You are a brave girl, said old Shell, but you haven’t got the timber in
you to stand the strain that you have been subjected to. You had better
go to bed and get some rest, and in the morning I will take you on board
of the Reindeer. Right in there is a good feather bed made by the girls
whose dress you have on. Go in there, and I will watch over you as I
would over them.

The girls retired, and Cora was soon in a deep sleep. Not so with Amy.
Her thoughts were on Walter Wallace. It was plain to her that the child
mentioned by the old man was Charles Drake. That many a time she had
looked at the mark on his breast, and it was just as the old man had
described it. But who was this Lieutenant Wallace that was going to the
Delaware Valley to look for Drake?

Is this my Walter? Oh, wish I knew his first name. This girl at my side
can tell me. I will ask her.

Miss Powers! Miss Powers! Miss Powers.

A-h-a-h—What do you want?

Will you tell me the first name of Lieutenant Wallace who is going to
look for the lost child!

Oh you go to sleep. What have you got to do about that?

I only wanted to know Mr. Wallace’s given name. Tell me that, and then
you can go to sleep again.

And if I refuse, what then?

Then you will be very unlady-like, said Amy.

This stung Cora, and she replied:

His name is Walter Wallace, and he came from a place they call Callicoon.

Amy sprang from the bed and ran into the old man’s room followed by Cora.

Look out for that girl! She is mad—crazy—insane! She is as mad as a march
hare! She wants me to tell her the name of every-body on the ship! Look
at her eyes—see her bosom swell! I tell you she has lost her reason.

Little bird, said the old man, placing his hand on her head and looking
into her eyes, tell me what causes this emotion?

She is mad! replied Cora.

Lady, I am not mad. Amy Powers is not mad, but knows all, and in time
will explain all.

Amy Powers! exclaimed Cora. Is that your name? Was your father’s name
Thomas? and your mother’s name Mary? and did you live on the Callicoon?

So she continued to ask questions, not stopping to give Amy an
opportunity to answer.

Bang!

What is that? asked Amy.

That is the sun-rise gun on the Reindeer, replied the old man.



CHAPTER XVIII.

    The Hunt—The Fatal Shot.


On the discovery that Cora could not be found, it was surmised that she
was playing one of her pranks, and she would soon leave her hiding place
and return. But as the night advanced, it was learned that four men and a
dog had been seen in the neighborhood. This raised the suspicion that she
had been kidnapped, and a general search was ordered. Men on horse-back
were sent to examine every road and house for twenty miles around, and
a file of marines were ordered to search the woods. But at sun-rise the
next morning, nothing had been learned of her.

Captain Davis ordered a strict lookout from the mast head for any parties
that might be seen crossing the river, and a boat manned and in readiness
to pursue any craft that might appear.

When Drake and his party saw the Indians disappear in the darkness of
the night, they supposed that the storm would drive them back. In the
meantime, they were at work securing material to build a float on which
they could cross the river. But the storm seriously interfered with their
work, and it was not until the sun rose the next morning that they were
prepared to cross the river.

The river at this point was about one mile across, and they started to
cross one mile above the island. The wind was in the east, and the float
made slow progress. The strong ebb tide carried them down stream so that
they barely cleared the rift, and placed them nearly east of the island.
Rolla sniffed the wind from the island and goes to the rear of the float
and whines.

The dog winds something on the island, said Cahoonshee.

But he hasn’t given the Amy bark, replied Drake.

Bang! went a gun on board of the Reindeer, and a cannon ball came
skipping over the water, passing directly ahead of the float.

What does that mean? inquired Drake.

That means stop, replied Cahoonshee.

Rolla gave three barks, sprang into the water, and swam toward the island.

That is the Amy bark, exclaimed Drake. Let us paddle after him.

Put down the paddle, boy, or they will blow us out of the water.

Bang!

The ball is seen ricocheting on the water in a direct line with the
float, and struck the end of one of the forward logs, and knocked off a
sliver that struck Cahoonshee and carried him overboard. Quick caught him
by the hair and pulled him back.

Don’t move a paddle, he said. If you do, the third shot will tear us to
pieces. But just keep still and we are safe. See, they are coming after
us, and then they will tell us what they want. Perhaps they will take us
on board of the ship.

By this time the ship’s boat had nearly reached the float. Walter stood
in the bow with his sword drawn. Lieutenant Powers was at the helm, and
between them stood a company of armed marines.

Keep quiet, said Cahoonshee, I will answer all questions.

Who commands this float? inquired Lieutenant Wallace.

I do, replied Cahoonshee. What is your wish?

We have orders to bring you on board of the ship.

By whose orders?

By the orders of Captain Davis.

Captain Davis shall be obeyed, said Cahoonshee.

Then hand in your guns and consider yourselves prisoners for the present.

The guns and other articles were placed in the boat. Cahoonshee stepped
on board and was conducted to the stern. The Quicks were seated at
mid-ship, and Drake at the bow.

I think that we have met before, said Cahoonshee to Lieutenant Powers.

I think not, replied Powers.

You was a mere boy then—the son of Admiral Powers.

Was you acquainted with my father!

Before the question could be answered Cahoonshee fainted. Drake instantly
sprang to his assistance, but was restrained by the sailors.

Gentlemen, said Drake, I do not know for what crime you have shot this
old man, but I beg of you to let me take care of him. See—he is dying.
Let me hold his head.

This appeal touched the sympathies of the officers, and Drake was
permitted to go to his assistance.

What caused this wound on his head? asked the Lieutenant.

The shot from the ship, replied Drake.

They were now along side of the ship, which was something new to Drake.
He was still holding Cahoonshee’s head, who gave some signs of returning
consciousness. Still the blood continued to flow from his wound.

He spoke:

Boy, tell the Captain that I am Cahoonshee. Show him the mark on your
breast. My time has come.

Evidently he intended to say something more, but dizziness prevented.

The ship is reached and Cahoonshee is carried on deck, and then to the
doctor’s room. Drake and the Quicks were taken before the Captain and
questioned.

Where is the girl and dog that was in your company?

There has been no girl in our company. The dog left when you shot the old
man, and is now on yonder island.

Have you any knowledge, young man, of a lady in the hands of the Indians?

Yes sir. For five days we have been in pursuit of a party of Indians who
hold a young lady a captive.

Have you any knowledge of a young lady that was taken from her friends
last night?

No, sir.

Who have you been pursuing?

A girl that was captured by the Indians in the Delaware Valley.

How came your dog to leave you?

I think he scented the girl on the island and went to rescue her. Perhaps
the same party that stole the Delaware girl captured the girl you refer
to. If so, no time should be lost. We should go to the island immediately.

Then proceed at once, said the Captain.

The boat was manned, and proceeded toward the island.

Soon after the boat left, the doctor went to the cabin, where he found
Captain Davis and wife.

Captain, said the doctor, the old Indian that was brought on board is
anxious to see you, and requested me to ask you to come to his quarters.

I have other duties to perform at present, he said.

The old Indian said that it was to your interest to see him—that his name
was Cahoonshee.

Cahoonshee! exclaimed Captain Davis and his wife at the same moment.

He is the Indian that promised to hunt for our lost child.

This seemed to have changed the Captain’s mind, and he soon was at the
side of the dying Indian.

Cahoonshee was apparently asleep—at least he did not notice the Captain,
who looked on his pale face, and then said to the doctor:

Is the wound on his head fatal?

The wound on his head, replied the doctor, is of little consequence. His
ailment is old age. The machine is worn out, and the loss of blood has
weakened him.

Doctor, I think that Indian knows of my lost child. Do for him all you
can.

Cahoonshee heard the last remark, and turned his head. The doctor and
Davis were soon at his side.

At this moment Mrs. Davis entered the room. A mother’s feelings could no
longer be suppressed, and taking the dying Indian by the hand, said:

Does my child live?

Yes, he faintly answered.

Where is he? quickly asked the Captain.

Cahoonshee made signs to be raised up in bed.

Where are my friends?—those that were on the float with me? Let me see
them.

An officer was directed to bring Tom and his father.

Cahoonshee continued to revive, and on the arrival of his friends felt
sufficiently strong to talk. He beckoned the Captain to take his hand and
said:

These men are friends of your child. This one is his brother, and this
one has been to him a father. They will tell you all, and then he fell
back on his bed exhausted.

The Quicks were taken to the cabin, where they related the history of
Charles Drake, from the time he was captured by the elder Quick on the
upper waters of the Mongaup, to the present time, and that when the boat
returned from the island they would see their lost child.

I have already seen him! exclaimed Mrs. Davis excitedly. It was he that
you questioned about Cora!

Nothing but the mark on his breast will convince me, said the Captain.

Then, replied Quick, you will be convinced. The mark is on there—anchor,
ship, with the letters C. D. and E. N. Is that your boy, Captain?

That is the way he was marked when he was stolen from his mother on the
island where they have now gone.

At this juncture an officer entered the cabin and informed the Captain
that the boat was approaching with two ladies on board.



CHAPTER XIX.

    Mutual Mistakes.


It was difficult for old Shell to pacify Amy after Cora had mentioned the
name of Walter Wallace. She was determined to go on board of the Reindeer
in search of her lover if she had to swim from the island to the ship.

I have often swam farther than that through the falls of the Delaware,
she said.

At last she reluctantly consented to wait until morning, and went to
sleep in her chair. Cora retired to bed again, and the old man prepared
breakfast, which consisted of smoked ham, dried herring, pan cakes and
birch bark tea.

They had not finished eating, when Bang! went a gun on board of the
Reindeer. In an instant they were all out of the cabin.

The ship first attracted their attention. Then they saw an armed boat
rowing up the river. Bang! went the gun again, when they looked up the
river and saw the float, with people on it.

I see, said Shell. They are shooting at a black bear. Don’t you see? He
is making direct for the island. I will get my gun and stop his bearship.

Amy was herself again, and watched the bear with great interest until the
old man returned with his gun.

You stay here girls, and I will go to the beach and settle him.

Amy followed him unperceived. The old man took accurate aim, when
suddenly Amy struck up his gun, and the ball went over the bear’s head.

Girl, what do you mean! he exclaimed.

I mean to save the life of my best friend. That is no bear, it is my dog
Rolla, and the party on the float are my friends.

By this time Rolla had reached the shore and embraced Amy with a kind of
fatherly affection. The parties watched the float, and saw the people on
it get in the boat and row toward the ship.

It will be remembered that the appearance of Amy and Cora was so much
alike that it was difficult to distinguish between them. But now they
were dressed exactly alike, and a casual observer could not tell one
from the other. This will account for the mistakes and confusion about to
be related.

When they saw the boat coming toward the island, the old man suggested
that they had better walk to the lower end of the island, as the boat
could safely land at that point.

At the time of the landing, Amy was standing on the east side of the
island with Rolla by her side. Walter being ignorant of the real facts,
took her for Cora. Acting under the impulse of the moment, he sprang out
of the boat, and swiftly ran to her, and folding her in his arms, said:

Cora! Oh, Cora—you are safe—you are safe! I feared that we should not see
you again! and he passionately kissed her.

But the girl did not reciprocate, but tried to free herself from his
embrace.

You are mistaken, young man. My name is not Cora.

Walter stared into her eyes for a moment.

You say that your name is not Cora? You have lost yourself. Your reason
is dethroned. You don’t know your nephew. If you are not Cora, who are
you? releasing her.

They continued to look into each others’ eyes for a few moments, when a
gleam of satisfaction beamed in Amy’s countenance. Her bosom heaved, and
instantly she threw her arms around him, and passionately exclaimed:

I am Amy Powers—your long lost Amy. Walter! Oh, Walter!

She could say no more, and willingly remained in his arms.

Walter looked down into her sweet and agitated face a moment, and a
thousand memories flashed across his mind. In his arms lay the mature
woman. In her he saw the girl of his childhood—his long lost Amy. And
here, locked in each other’s embrace, we must leave them, and turn our
attention to other parties.

Drake jumped ashore, and saw, as he supposed, Amy, standing on the
west side of the island. He ran to her and clasped her in his arms and
smothered her with kisses, exclaiming:

Sister? dear sister! You are saved. I was afraid that you would be either
killed or drowned.

See here young man, said Cora. I guess that you are a persistent lover,
and have learned the art of hugging and kissing to perfection—not that I
have any particular fault to find—in fact, I rather like it, at least I
would if it was meant for me. But it is meant for that other girl. I am
not Amy, my name is Cora.

Oh, Amy, Drake continued. Don’t you know me? Don’t you know your brother?
Look at me Amy.

Oh, young man, I see you plain enough, and rather like your looks. But I
am not your sister. I don’t know you. I never saw you before.

Oh, Amy, this is terrible. The Indians have turned your head, deprived
you of reason, and caused you to forget your best friends. But you will
know the mark on my breast, tearing his shirt open and bringing to view
the anchor and ship.

Cora looked at his breast and the tell-tale letters on it. She saw at a
glance and understood who the young man was that so firmly held her. She
knew that he was the long lost child of Captain Davis. At the moment she
was embarrassed and faltered as to the course she should pursue. Then
suddenly throwing her arms about his neck, said:

I wish I was your sister—no, I don’t mean that. What do I want to be your
sister for? I wish—well no matter what I wish. Now, young man, sit down
by me, and I will tell you something you don’t know. First, I am not Amy.
She is over there in the arms of her old lover, Walter Wallace.

Drake sprang to his feet.

Don’t disturb them, she said, for they have not met for a great many
years and have a great deal to talk about. In the next place, my name
is Cora Powers, and I am the aunt of the girl you call Amy. In the next
place, you are Charles Davis, and was stolen many years ago from your
mother on this island near the spot where we now sit, and your father and
mother are now on board of the Reindeer.

Drake heard this announcement with amazement, scarcely believing his
eyes or ears. Then he remembered that Cahoonshee had said that he should
inquire for his father on board of the English war vessel. He was
satisfied that the girl by his side was not Amy, not from any difference
in her looks, but from her voice and actions.

Lady, said Drake, let us go and see Amy and her lover.

As soon as they appeared, Rolla bounded toward them, jumping and barking
with joy.

Amy saw Drake coming, and advanced to meet him. Their meeting was of such
an affectionate character that Walter was at a loss to understand it.
Wallace seized Cora’s hand and congratulated her on her escape from the
Indians. Amy introduced Drake to Walter, saying;

He has always been a good brother to me.

Cora drew Drake aside and said:

Mr. Davis, for now that is your name, I want to ask you one
straight-forward question.

Certainly, lady, proceed.

Did you love Amy as a sister only?

As a sister only, he replied.

In Charles Davis, Cora had found her hero—one that was bold, just and
generous, with just enough savage life in his exterior to interest a girl
of Cora’s mind. The smothering kisses and manly embraces he had bestowed
on her, although meant for another, had aroused within her a passion
different from any she had before experienced. She was the pet child of
a wealthy family, gay, giddy and trifling, and in one sense a flirt.
Accustomed to have her own way, yet noble and high minded. Her hand
had been sought by the noble of her London home, but she had repulsed
them all. Why? Because in them she did not see her hero—her ideal of a
man. In Charles Davis, although dressed in torn and tattered clothes,
although his face was sun-burned, and had the appearance of bronze,
although his home had been in the forest, and his companions savages,
yet something within her heart told her that she loved Charles Davis,
that he had aroused within her bosom a passion heretofore dormant, and,
on the impulse of the moment intended to tell him the state of her mind
and declare her love. It was for this purpose she led him aside and asked
him if he loved Amy only as a sister. But his answer being so frank,
“as a sister only,” disconcerted her. How unlike the fops she had been
accustomed to meet in London. It then flashed across her mind that Davis
was no longer the half savage, the half civilized youth of the Delaware
Valley, but the son of Captain Charles Davis, a man of influence and
power in the English Navy. She realized that to talk and act love that
was prompted by genuine affection was quite a different thing from the
every day flirtation in which there was but little sense and no heart.
She therefore concluded to await the result of the meeting that was about
to take place on board of the Reindeer.

When it was announced that a boat containing two ladies was approaching,
all hands rushed to the deck. That Cora was one of them there was no
doubt. But who could the other one be.

See, said Mrs. Davis to her husband. Cora is sitting by Walter in the bow.

Then her shadow must be reflected to the stern, said the Captain, for
that is certainly Cora. But who is the young man sitting by her side?

That is the young man you questioned. That is your and my son, Captain.

The Captain placed his arm around his wife, and said:

Is it possible that this young man is our son?

The boat comes alongside, and Walter assists Amy on deck. Immediately the
Captain and his wife advanced to meet her, supposing that it was Cora.
Walter noticed Amy’s embarrassment.

This is not Cora. She will be on board soon.

A moment later Cora came on deck, and running to the Captain, said:

I claim the reward.

What reward? the Captain asked.

The reward you offered for the production of your son. Here he is,
turning to where she supposed Drake stood.

But Drake was not there. Neither could he be seen or found on deck.

Cora was surprised, and felt hurt. She supposed he stood by her side, and
intended to have the honor of introducing him to his parents, but he was
nowhere to be found.

I saw a young man in the boat when you came along-side, said Mrs. Davis.

Yes, and it was your son. He came on deck with me, replied Cora.

The Captain was in a maze. He had at no time been convinced that
the person alluded to by Cahoonshee was his child and this sudden
disappearance raised greater doubts.

Lieutenant, said the Captain, this is very remarkable that the person
said to be my son came on board, but cannot be found.

Said to be your son? exclaimed Walter. I have heard of no such person.

I have, replied Cora, and am the only one on board that knew that fact.

How do you know? inquired the Captain.

I saw the mark on his breast that I have so often heard described. He
showed it to me on the island.

The decks were searched, but Drake could not be found, and amid the
confusion the doctor appeared.

How is your patient? asked the Captain.

Better. He is sitting up conversing with the young man who was on the
float with him when he got hurt.

That is Drake, said Cora. I will go after him, and started for the
doctor’s room.

Don’t disturb them at present. The old man realizes that his end is near,
and wishes to have a private talk with the boy.

The parties then went to the cabin, and Amy and Cora related in part
their adventures.

Amy gave Drake’s history from the time she became acquainted with him,
and was describing her mother’s funeral when Tom Jones and Jack Frost
appeared bearing Cahoonshee in their arms, followed by Drake.

Instantly all voices are hushed, and a death-like silence prevailed.

Here youth and old age clasped hands. The old man was weak and trembling,
and it was evident that he was making a superhuman effort to perform a
promise made many years ago. Drake stood by his side holding his hand,
the very picture of despair as his whole soul went out for Cahoonshee. At
that moment he would have forsaken father and mother to prolong the life
of him that had been his friend and foster-father.

Mrs. Davis made an attempt to go to the side of her child, but was
restrained by the Captain who was doubting whether he could believe his
own eyes. Whether the youth that held the aged warrior’s hand was his son.

Cahoonshee beckoned Captain Davis and wife to approach, and they advanced.

Years ago I promised to find and restore to you your child. Why I have
delayed it so long, your son will explain at some other time. My sands of
life are nearly run out, and my last act will be to present to you your
son. Examine the mark and satisfy yourselves.

Drake bared his bosom. The Captain and wife in the same breath exclaimed:

_Our child!_

Captain, said Cahoonshee, take this boy. He is one of nature’s noblemen.
It has been the pride and study of my life to leave behind me an example
of Indian training. I think I have fixed his character, moulded his mind,
and educated him in the arts and sciences far beyond what he could have
learned in the schools. Lay me down.

That night Drake stayed with his parents. I shall not attempt to describe
the interview. Suffice it to say that the Captain and wife were both
inexpressibly happy in the society of their child. The Captain was
surprised at the learning and intelligence of a boy that had been reared
in the dark forest of the Delaware.

Walter spent most of the night on deck with Amy, where he related his
adventures in searching for her—the trip to England, the finding of Lord
Wallace, and lastly, the discovery of his and her grand-father.

Amy, nestling on his bosom, exclaimed:

Oh, Walter, how happy I am. Will this always last?

Certainly my dear. Nothing shall part us now. You will go with me to
England and become queen of my house.

And leave Drake and Cahoonshee? she replied.

Walter looked into her sweet face as if to divine her thoughts.

Drake will undoubtedly remain with his father, and Cahoonshee shall be
taken care of.

By whom? she asked.

Walter saw that these words meant more than they expressed, and drawing
Amy still closer to him, said:

I suppose this old man has been a good friend of yours and you do not
like to leave him.

He has been more than a friend. He has been a father, a protector, an
instructor. What little I know, he taught me. I wish to remain with him
to the last.

Your wish shall be gratified, said Walter.

We shall not attempt to follow the parties or relate their conversation
at this, their first meeting. And if we made the attempt, we would
certainly fail, for the most vivid imagination cannot describe the
sensation of two hearts so firmly united, that had been so long
separated. They were in fact “one twain, one flesh.” Their hearts beat in
unison, and each of them could truthfully say:

“Mine is thine and thine is mine.”

And here in the pale moonlight of a coming morn, we must leave the
lovers, and turn our attention to other characters.

Cora had, in a sense, been left alone. The others held within their
embrace the object of their affection, but she was alone and lonely. The
object of her affection was sitting between his parents in the cabin,
relating the adventures of the past, and planning for the future. The
future of that man was all the world to her. With him the future would be
heaven. Without him, misery. From her room she could hear distinctly the
conversation that passed between them. At last she heard him say:

Now my dear parents, you must excuse me. Duty calls me to the side of my
foster-father.

She heard the good-night said, and the parting kiss bestowed. She knew
that Drake was going to see Cahoonshee. I will be there first, she
thought; and started through a passage way that led to the doctor’s room.
On opening the door, she found Cahoonshee quietly sleeping, and Tom and
Jack watching by his side.

My good men, she said, I have come to relieve you. Let me watch by the
side of the dying hero.

Tom and Jack departed, and Cora was left alone with the dying man. In a
few moments he opened his eyes and said:

Amy, my child, extending his hand.

This is not Amy, she said. I am Cora Powers, the daughter of Admiral
Powers.

Then, replied the old man, I must be near the Spirit Land. My eyes have
failed me. Bend down, child, and let me place my hand on your neck.

The old man drew his hand across her neck below the ear.

You are right, child. The mole is not there. You are not Amy. Where is
she? and where is Drake?

At this moment the door opened, and Drake appeared. He was embarrassed at
finding Cora there, and was at a loss what to say. But Cahoonshee knew
him.

My eyes are not mistaken now. This is my boy Drake.

Yes, father, I have come to stay with you.

Cahoonshee looked at Cora.

Who is this lady if it is not Amy? It must be her spirit.

Drake then related the incidents of the day and who Cora was, the
similarity between the two girls, and the mistakes that had been made
in taking one girl for the other, and the meeting of Amy and her lover,
Walter Wallace, on the island, and that they were together now.

Cahoonshee grew stronger, and raised up in bed.

Come here, girl, and let me look in your eyes, and read your soul.

Cora advanced to the bed. Cahoonshee took her hand and gazed into her
eyes.

You have the same form and features—the same eyes and soul of Amy. You
differ in name, and in name only, and he fell back on his pillow.

Cora and Drake withdrew a short distance.

I fear, said Cora, that your friend has but a short time to live.

I fear not, replied Drake, sobbing, and the tears running down his cheeks.

She took him by the hand to console him.

You loved this old man as a father?

Yes, more than a father. He has watched over me since the days of my
childhood. He has spent days and nights educating me. He has periled his
life to save his friends. And I came here at this time to hear his last
request. I think he wants to be buried on the Steneykill.

The old man had awakened and was watching them, and saw Cora holding
Drake’s hand.

Lady, he asked, could you hold his heart as tenderly and affectionately
as you hold his hand?

Cora blushed, and they both went to his side.

Shall I raise you up further? asked Drake.

Yes, he replied, my race is nearly run. I will soon be in the Spirit
Land. But I have a request to make before I depart. Send for Amy and the
rest to come here.

Drake went to call them and Cora and Cahoonshee were left alone.

Sit by my side he said, and tell me if your hand and heart are free. Tell
me whether holding that boy’s hand was actuated by pure sympathy, or
whether a higher and nobler attribute springing from your heart prompted
it?

Cora, true to the instincts of her nature, concealed nothing. Throwing
her arms around the old man’s neck, and kissing him, said;

Father, you read my heart. How could you tell what occupied my soul?

Before she could finish the sentence, the door opened, and in walked
Drake and the rest of the friends. Amy threw herself on the couch and
wept as if her heart would break.

Cahoonshee roused.

I have sent for you, friends, to make my last request. Before the setting
of many suns, this mortal will put on immortality. This spirit will go
to the Happy Hunting Grounds. My request is that my body be buried on the
Pine Knoll west of my cabin on the Steneykill.

It shall be done, said Drake and Walter at the same time.

Cahoonshee continued:

My books and writings I give to Charles Drake. My gun and other property
I give to Tom and his father, and to Amy my furs.

Here his voice faltered. His eyes closed and for several minutes he
seemed to be communing with the Spirits in the Spirit World. His
countenance showed that it was a struggle of mental duty that he wished
to perform before he shut his eyes for the last time.

Raise me up a little higher. Come here, boy. Something tells me that I
have another request to make. I may be wrong.

You can’t be wrong. You never did wrong. Make your request, and it shall
be obeyed. I have followed your advice through life. At death, and in the
presence of these friends, I promise to revere it.

I have something to give away. It consists of mind and matter. Have I a
right to give it? Heaven direct me.

Heaven will direct you, and what heaven directs must be right, replied
Drake. What is it, father, that you wish to give away?

It is you, my boy, it is you. Here, Cora, taking her by the hand and
extending it to Drake. Take this girl, and may heaven smile on your
union. She loves you, boy, ardently, sincerely, devotedly. She is like
Amy, not only in form and figure, but in mind and soul. My work is done.
Lay me down.



CHAPTER XX.

    Farewell to Earth—Indian’s Idea of the Hereafter—Death of
    Cahoonshee—Married on Her Mother’s Grave.


Wallace and Drake returned to the deck to consult as to the future.

Have you any plan arranged to carry out Cahoonshee’s request?

I have, replied Drake. That was agreed upon in the private conversation
I had with him when I first came on board of the ship. It is to build
a litter on which to carry him, and start immediately for the Delaware
Valley.

What—before he is dead?

Yes, immediately. He is impressed with the idea that he will live until
his arrival at home. At any rate, that is his request, and it shall be
complied with if possible.

You seem to have perfect confidence in the wisdom of the old man. Do you
intend to perform his last request and marry Cora?

My promise to a dying man is sacred. And as far as it is in my power,
it shall be performed. I do not know what Cora’s feelings are. I have
followed his advice for over twenty years, and shall not reject it now.
If Cora is willing I shall make her my bride.

Cora had approached them unperceived, and on hearing Drake’s last remark,
tapped him under the chin and said:

Then I shall be your bride. I do consent. I consented on the island, when
you held me in your arms and thought I was another girl. I then thought
that Walter had found a prize that belonged to another, and I asked you
if you loved her, and you said “as a sister.” Now kiss me, and I will go
and see my intended mother-in-law and Amy.

She skipped away like a young fawn, leaving Walter and Drake to perfect
their plans.

I think, said Walter, that we had better consult the Captain.

The Captain was then informed of the plan to remove Cahoonshee to his
home. He approved of the same, and ordered them to take what men and
material they wanted to accomplish their object.

How long will you be gone? inquired the Captain.

That is uncertain, and will depend on how long he lives, replied Drake. I
shall not leave him until I have performed my promise.

Just then Cora and Amy came rushing up, as happy as two kittens. Cora
threw her arms around Mrs. Davis’s neck, looked into her eyes, and said:

Mother, how do you like your new daughter-in-law?

That is a good joke on you, said Lieutenant Powers.

But, replied Cora, it is no joke. I was never more sincere in my life. I
tell you my name is Mrs. Charles Davis, seizing the Captain by one hand
and Drake by the other. Come father, why don’t you congratulate us?

For what?

For finding a son and losing him the same day and getting a daughter in
his place.

Do you think that you could love my son on so short an acquaintance?

Oh, we met before we came on the ship.

Where?

On the island. Oh, if you had seen him hug and kiss me, you would have
thought him a persistent lover and that he had studied the art to
perfection.

My children, all I know about this matter is what I have heard Cahoonshee
say, and he had some reasons to believe that his wishes would be complied
with. For my part, I am ready to believe anything. The events have rushed
upon us so fast for the past forty eight hours, that I have lost my
reckoning. But if you two intend to make fast to each other, leave the
sea of single blessedness and sail upon the broad ocean of matrimony, you
have my consent. But our first duty is to take care of Cahoonshee.

The ship carpenter built a litter on which to carry Cahoonshee, and the
arrangements were completed, when an unexpected difficulty arose. Amy
wished to return with the party, and Cora said that she would not trust
Drake to go through that wilderness unless she was along to protect him.
Then the doctor appeared and informed them Rolla was sick and would
probably die, but that Cahoonshee was stronger.

It was finally arranged that both of the girls should accompany the party
back to the Delaware Valley, and officers were sent on shore to procure
horses.

Thus, another day was passed.

The next morning Cahoonshee was carried on shore and placed on the
litter. The elder Quick was sent on horse-back in advance to announce to
the people the return of Cahoonshee and his condition.

Amy, Cora, Walter and Drake led the way, followed by Tom and Jack and ten
others carrying Cahoonshee.

It is not our intention to describe the incidents of the journey home
further than to say that during the entire journey, the greatest respect
was paid to the returning warrior, by both natives and whites.

It already appears that civilization was moving west, and at the time
of which we write, the Delaware Valley, from Milford, on the south, to
Mamakating, on the north, was settled by the whites, principally of the
Holland and French extractions, among which were the Cuddebacks, Deckers,
Gumaers, Van Fleets, Van Inwegens, Swartwouts and Westfalls, who will
become conspicuous as we proceed in our history.

On the evening of the third day, the parties carrying Cahoonshee arrived
on the west bank of the Neversink River, (Port Clinton,) and about two
miles from the Penepack (Huguenot) settlement.

Here the principal people of the Valley had assembled to pay their last
respects to a man that all had loved, and the settlers above mentioned
volunteered to accompany the party to Cahoonshee’s cabin on the
Steneykill, and Amy was congratulated on her escape from the Indians and
return home.

The next morning they marched to Peenpack, and from there, by way of the
Cahoonshee trail, to the Steneykill, where they found the elder Quick
ready to receive them.

As Cahoonshee was lifted from the litter and carried into his old home,
his countenance brightened, and for a few moments he seemed to be living
his life over again. Through the western window the declining sun could
be seen. The leaves on the trees presented a golden hue, and proclaimed
to the observer that the green and golden forest would soon be wrapped in
the cold embrace of winter. All this was emblematical to Cahoonshee. As
the leaf faded, died and returned to mother earth, so would he.

My friends, he said, this is the last sun that I shall see set.
To-morrow, at this time, I shall have passed away. That orb that has so
long furnished me light and heat will be seen by me no more.

_Is this the last of man?_ or is there an existence beyond the grave?
If not, why this distinction between men and animals? Do what I may,
go where I will, I am always impressed by some influence—I know not
what—that I am mortal. Yet this same certain something convinces me that
I am immortal.

This is a path leading to the Great Spirit—a mirror of Deity. And
to prove that, it is not necessary to explain how I came by this
idea—whether I derived it from my forefathers, or whether the Great
Spirit has engraved it on my mind, or whether I, myself have formed it
from a chain of principles.

Of myself, I am fully persuaded that I have an idea of a being supremely
great, and one, whose perfections and powers I am unable to understand.
And I know that there must be somewhere without me an object answering to
the idea within.

For, as I think and as I know that I am not the author of the faculty
that thinks within me, I am obliged to conclude that a foreign cause has
produced it. If this foreign cause is a being that derives its existence
from another foreign cause, then I am necessarily obliged to proceed from
one step to another, and in this way go on until I find a self existing
being. That self existing being is the Indian’s Great Spirit—the white
man’s God.

This idea is not a phantom of my creation, it is the portrait of the
original. It exists in me and independent of me. Thus, in myself I find
proof of a first great cause.

I am now going to unite myself to that cause. To-morrow I lay this body
down. The body will return to its original _dust_, and my spirit to its
original—_to the Great Spirit that gave it_.

I have no desire to stay any longer. My tribe has become extinct. My race
is passing away. The Indians of the American forest will live in history
only—raise me up a little higher, Drake—there, that will do. I see the
silver streaks in the east, and soon the sun will cast its cheerful rays
over this beautiful landscape, to be seen, but not by me. Then Cahoonshee
will have winged his way to the last hunting ground.

The whole party was standing by the dying man. His mind was clear, strong
and vigorous, but his voice was weak.

The sun rose over the eastern hills and cast its rays in the old man’s
face. A perceptible smile lit up his countenance, and he faintly said:

It is finished.

Thus died the last of the Cahoonshees.

A rude coffin is made, and Cahoonshee is carried to the house prepared
for all living.

What a commentary on human nature. A few years before, the Delaware
Valley swarmed with the red men of the forest. Now the last of his race
is carried to his grave by the white man. Cuddeback and Gumaer on the
left and Swartwout and Van Etten on the right, carry him to the grave,
followed by the rest of the party, and bury him on a pine hill, west of
his cabin.

There was no ringing of bells, no mock eulogy, no hypocritical mourning.
But in silence they laid him away, each one feeling that the body of one
of the wisest and best of men reposed there. (See Appendix.)

The parties then returned to the cabin and distributed the personal
effects of Cahoonshee, and then proceeded to Quick’s cabin on the
Shinglekill.

The next morning they went to Hawk’s Nest, where Drake pointed out to
Walter the point in the river where he first saw the float with Amy
and her mother on it. Then they visited the Callicoon, the former home
of Walter and Amy. There was the old sugar maple tree where they had
so often played, and where they first learned to love. There was the
towering oak where Walter shot the panther. There was the tree where his
cat Amy stood, and just over the ridge was where he found surveyor Webb.

The reader can imagine the thoughts that passed through their minds as
they sat under the tree, holding each other’s hands, living over again
the days of their childhood.

Walter, said Amy, there is one more place I wish to visit, and then I
will be ready to go with you to England. I wish to go once more to my
mother’s grave.

Did we not pass near it on the way to Hawk’s Nest?

Yes, but I did not wish to go there then. There is where I lost my best
friend, and there is where I wish to give my hand to you—my heart you
have always owned. I gave it to you under this tree. Let us go to the
grave of my mother. There for the first time let me call you husband.

Walter could not deny this request, although he had intended to defer the
marriage until their arrival in London.

The parties then returned to the Shinglekill, where preparations were
made to celebrate the nuptials of Walter and Amy.

The pastor of the little flock of worshipers that resided in the Valley,
Johannes Casparus Fryenmout, was invited to officiate on the occasion,
and bring with him his young wife that he had lately taken from the Van
Etten family.

His little church was built of logs, and was situated on the road leading
from Carpenters Point (Tri-States,) to Kingston, on the west bank of the
Machackamack (Neversink) River. (See Appendix.)

He thought that the wedding should take place at his church, assigning as
a reason, that “a grave yard was not in keeping with the occasion.” But
Amy thought different, and insisted that the marriage should take place
at her mother’s grave.

It was a warm November day when they left Quick’s cabin to march to the
cemetery that contained a single grave. The good pastor led the way,
followed by the Quicks and other neighbors. Next came Tom and Jack,
followed by the sailors and marines. Then came Amy and Cora, followed by
Walter and Drake.

As the head of the column reached the consecrated place the lines
divided, and the heroes of our tale marched through and took their
station at the head of the grave.

The pastor took for his text the words that Cahoonshee had cut on the
grave stone:

“Here lies Mary, the mother of Amy.”

Here we have another proof of the wisdom of the Psalmist: “God works
in a mysterious way his wonders to perform.” Years ago, the mother of
the lady that is about to take upon herself the duties of a wife, was
consigned to this grave. Her body lies mouldering in the silent tomb.
Her soul has gone to the God that gave it. And if, as we are assured,
angels are the spirits of the just made perfect, then the spirit of that
mother is hovering over and about us, and I doubt not, approving of this
union. From the day her body was consigned to this grave, a mysterious
providence has protected her child. And not only her child, but the child
of William Wallace, who is now about to make her his bride. My friends,
as a token that this union has the sanction of Heaven, that you have
given to and received each other to yourself, that each of you possesses
the whole of the other’s heart, that you are twain, one flesh, you will
signify it by kneeling on this sacred grave. Here, in the presence
of Heaven and these witnesses, I pronounce you one, and recorded in
Heaven as husband and wife. And may the same kind providence that has
so mysteriously led you in the past continue to watch over you. May the
same love and emotions that was your polar star when in search of each
other still continue to shine. And when the time comes for an earthly
separation, may there be a re-union in Heaven between mother and child.
Amen.

Drake had been an interested spectator of this scene. It brought vividly
to his memory the history of the past. He remembered that at this grave
he had tried to console Amy for the loss she sustained by the death of
her mother. That on this spot he had promised to search for her lover,
and now on this spot he had witnessed the consummation of his wishes. At
his side stood Cora, his affianced wife. Were their hearts united like
the couple that had knelt before them? He felt a strong infatuation for
Cora. Was it real? Did it come from the heart, or was it the influence
that Cahoonshee still exerted over him? Was it the promise that he had
made a dying man that influenced him?

From the time they left the ship until Amy’s marriage, Cora had been in
his company, but by no word or action had she referred to the scene on
the ship, where Cahoonshee had placed her hand in his and said:

“She loves you!”

True, at that time, she seemed to acquiesce to the dying man’s request.
Was this real, or was it an acquiescence to please an aged warrior, and
dismissed from her mind when death had closed his eyes?

I will know, now and here, he thought to himself.

He offered Cora his arm, and they walked to the upper end of Butternut
Grove. Seating themselves, he said:

Cora, you remember the occasion on the ship, when all were present, and
Cahoonshee joined our hands, and asked me to make you my wife? I consider
that promise sacred, and my love of the memory of the dead tells me
to keep it. But with you, it is different. I have no right to insist
that you should keep a promise given under such circumstances. Tell me
frankly, Cora, do you feel yourself bound by that promise?

Cora seized both of his hands, and looked intently into his eyes, said:

Charles, do you wish me to keep that promise?

Drake was not prepared to answer this straight forward question, and
wished for time to collect his thoughts. Cora noticed his confusion, and
said:

I will answer your question. I do feel myself bound by that promise—not
that I made it to Cahoonshee, but from the fact that my heart was yours
before that promise was made.

When? he asked.

On the island, she replied. Now Charles, I have answered your question.
Will you answer mine? Do you wish me to keep mine?

I do if—

Don’t have any ifs about it, throwing her arms around him. Now hug and
kiss me as you did on the island.

He took her in his arms and said:

Cora. I neither know myself or you. Yet something tells me that without
you life would be miserable.



CHAPTER XXI.

    Cora Receives Her Reward.


The next morning they parted, the Quicks returning to their farm at
Milford, and Walter, Amy and friends to the Hudson, arriving there on the
evening of the third day.

They were met at the landing by Lieutenant Powers and escorted to the
Reindeer, where they were joyfully received by Captain Davis and wife.

Then the events of the journey were related, and Amy and Walter
introduced to them as husband and wife.

Cora was in the best of spirits, and sought the first opportunity to make
a demand on Captain Davis for the reward he had offered for the recovery
of his son.

I claim the reward, she said.

You shall have it, he replied. Let me see. I believe it was one hundred
and fifty pounds. We will call it that, more or less. Purser, bring the
sparkling gold.

I prefer sparkling eyes, replied Cora, taking Charles by the hand and
advancing to the Captain. I want the one hundred and fifty pounds you
promised, but I don’t want it in gold, I want one hundred and fifty
pounds avoirdupoise, in flesh and blood. In a word, I want your son for a
husband.

My son is of age and can speak for himself, said the Captain.

And he has spoken for himself. He has promised to marry me.

Ah, sly puss, said the Captain. That is the result of allowing you to go
off together in the wilds of the Delaware Valley.

You are mistaken there, Captain. As far as our hearts are concerned, that
was settled before we started.

Charles, said the Captain, marriage is a personal matter in which parents
should advise, but never control their children. But if you have agreed,
you have my consent. Set the time for the wedding, and I will see that
ample arrangements are made.

I think, said Charles, that my mother should be consulted.

Certainly, replied Cora.

I think, said Mrs. Davis, that the marriage should be deferred until we
reach home. A few months’ acquaintance may change your feelings. I fear
the promise made to Cahoonshee is the moving cause to this engagement. If
so, it might be disastrous to both parties.

While Cora was standing at the grave of Mary Powers she resolved that
if she married Drake, it should be at her father’s house, and for that
reason intended to defer the marriage until they arrived in London. But
she didn’t like the reasoning of Mrs. Davis. The idea that any change
could take place was preposterous, as she was convinced that Charles
loved her, and that her heart was in the right place.

The parties then went into a committee of the whole, and resolved to let
all matters rest until they arrived in London.

In a few days the anchor is raised, and the Reindeer starts on her ocean
voyage, and in due time entered the Thames.

This brought to Walter’s mind the contrast between the past and present.
When he sailed up the river before, all was doubt and uncertainty. Then
the object of his affections was far behind, somewhere in the wilderness
of America. Now she stood by his side, his Amy, his loving bride. Then
it was uncertain how he would be received. Now he knew that he would be
welcome and received as the child and heir of two of the first families
in London.

In the mean time, the Reindeer is nearing the harbor, the docks of which
were lined with people. The parties landed, and Lord and Lady Wallace
gave their children a hearty welcome. Amy was put in possession of her
share of her grand-father’s property, and Tom Jones married Jack Frost’s
eldest daughter.

A few evenings after their arrival, the mansion of the old Admiral was
ablaze of light. The occasion was the marriage of Charles Davis to Cora
Powers.

After the ceremony was over, Walter invited all present to the art
gallery, which contained many objects of interest, but none were more
conspicuous than the preserved skins, stuffed and made natural, of the
white cats, Walt and Amy, and standing between them, looking as natural
as life, was the dog Rolla. And here we will dismiss them and return to
the Delaware Valley.



CHAPTER XXII.

    Death of Thomas Quick, Sr., and the Threat of His Son Tom.


Many years have passed since William Wallace and Thomas Powers passed up
the Delaware Valley. Then the country was one unbroken forest, inhabited
by wild beasts and Indians only. Now all has changed. The Indians have
mostly left, and the whites have taken their place. The flat land from
Milford to Mamakating is mostly improved, and is yielding to the farmer
an abundant harvest. Stacks of hay and grain are to be seen in every
field. The flail is heard from morn till night thrashing out the golden
wheat. In every house is heard the buzzing wheel, the prattling babe and
the merry voices of lovely maids. Grist and saw mills have been erected,
schools established, and passable roads built.

But now a cloud appears. It was the cloud that Cahoonshee had foretold
many years before. That:

“There would be a war of extermination between the white men and the
Indians, and the Indians would be exterminated.”

The Indians claimed that they had been cheated by the whites, and robbed
and driven from their soil and the graves of their fathers. Revenge
smothered in their breasts, and at a council held by the remnants of
several of the tribes, it was resolved to destroy all the whites in the
Delaware and Neversink Valleys.

The whites did not see the danger that was impending over them, or
the dark cloud that would soon deluge the Valley with blood and cause
mourning in every house.

Most of the inhabitants thought the Indians friendly, and those that were
unfriendly too few to make war on the whites.

For this reason they became careless, and went to their fields and on
journeys unarmed, and thus became easy victims of the savages.

Thomas Quick, Sr., was now living on his farm at Milford, and had always
been a staunch friend of the Indians. His house had always been open for
their reception and his table bountifully spread to satisfy their wants.

His son, Tom spent most of his time among them and appeared to think more
of them and their savage life than he did of his father and the comforts
of home.

He thought that this would protect him, and that if war was made upon the
whites, he would not be molested.

But he was deceived. Instead of being passed by, he was doomed to be the
first victim. His sentence had already been passed, and the wily Indians
were waiting in ambush for an opportunity to execute it.

Having occasion to use some hoop-poles, he, with his son Tom and his
son-in-law, went up the river to cut them unarmed.

At this time the Indians were concealed, planning an attack on the
Milford settlement, with the intention of putting to death the entire
population. Knowing that Quick and his sons kept trusty rifles and that
their aim was deadly, they faltered and argued as to the best mode of
attack.

In the midst of this harangue, Quick and his sons were seen coming toward
them. It was immediately resolved to take their scalps.

An Indian by the name of Muswink fired, and Quick fell mortally wounded.
He advised his son to leave him to his fate and save themselves. But they
persisted in trying to save him. He cried again as the Indians rushed
upon them.

Leave me and save yourselves and those that are at the house.

It was a struggle for Tom to leave his father, and it was not until he
saw them coming in great numbers that he fled.

Farewell, Father, Farewell, your death shall be avenged.

Then he fled across the river on the ice, a volley of bullets followed
him. He falls. The war whoop is sounded.

Tom is dead—Tom is dead!

But Tom is neither dead nor wounded. He springs to his feet and escapes
to the Jersey Shore. A ball had struck the heel of his shoe and tripped
him.

In the meantime his father had been killed and scalped. Tom sought the
opportunity and recovered the scalped body of his father and gave it
christian burial. His love for the Indians and their society now forsook
him, and the uppermost thought in his mind was revenge. He covered the
grave with green sod, and taking his knife in his right hand, and his
rifle in his left, looking toward heaven, exclaimed:

      “By the point of the knife in my right;
    and the deadly bullet in my left;
    By heaven and all there is in it,
    by earth and all there is on it;
    By the love I bore my father,
    here on his grave I swear eternal vengeance
    against the whole Indian race.
    I swear to kill all, to spare none;
    The old man with silver hair,
    The lisping babe without teeth,
    the mother quick with child, and
    the maid in the bloom of youth shall die.
    A voice from my father’s grave cries
    Revenge! Eternal revenge!”

and he threw himself across his father’s grave.

How well Tom kept his promise and how many Indians his rifle sent to the
Spirit world will appear in the next chapter.



CHAPTER XXIII.

    Tom kept his vow and had his revenge.


The threat of Tom Quick mentioned in the preceding chapter was one
that was not made in vain. It was made while he was standing in the
presence of his dead father. On finding the body, he turned it over and
exclaimed, “dead and scalped.” Tradition says that from that moment he
was a changed man. His love for the society of the Indians forsook him,
and his only thought was revenge; and turning to his mother and other
friends said, “You will see that father is properly buried, I have other
work to do. From this time my work will be to avenge my father’s death.”
Then followed the vow recorded in the former chapter—“To kill all and
spare none.” And left his friends to perform the last office to the dead,
and went forth on his mission of revenge. For two years after this he
was seldom seen in the settlements, and then only long enough to procure
powder and shot, which was his chief stock in trade. Tom seldom talked
and then only to hunters or those he could rely on to keep his secrets;
except to himself and to his gun, which was of the largest size, being
seven feet four inches long and weighed 21 pounds, and carried a ball one
inch in diameter. It was an old saying that when one of Tom’s bullets
went through an Indian, that it made two windows in him and a hall
between them. I have said that Tom seldom talked except to himself and
he did the most of this when he was alone, or at least when he thought
he was alone. But he was heard on several occasions, and tradition has
handed down to us several of his soliloquies. The following is a fair
sample of his home talk. He had been out on a hunt and had returned to
his cabin in the edge of evening with a saddle of venison. He hung the
venison up on the corner of the house and looked toward the east where he
saw a full moon, when he soliloquized as follows:

“This is rather a nice evening. Let me see, it is a full moon; a good
coon night. What say you long Tom, (raising his gun) how would you like
to drop one of the red coons before morning. I would; that would make
just 87 red devils that I have sent to the Spirit land since Muswink
murdered my father. Tell me, O ye stars, (looking up) for what was he
murdered. For being a friend to the Indian, for furnishing them with
shelter and food, for being a good man, a kind neighbor, a God-fearing
and God-loving man. Father, my father, you sleep on the banks of the
Delaware; no only your body lies there, your spirit is here, there,
everywhere it is now hovering round and about me. It is continually
whispering in my ear revenge, revenge. It is God’s will, father that your
death should be avenged. It is God’s will that your son Tom Quick should
be the avenger. For this I have left home and the comforts of civilized
life and burrowed in the ground like a rabbit. For this I left the mother
that gave me birth, and taught me to say: ‘Now I lay me down to sleep, I
pray the Lord my soul to keep; If I should die before I wake, I pray the
Lord my soul to take.’ That kind good and generous mother now kneels on
the old family hearth and mourns the loss of the living as though dead.
Maggie too; God bless her. She is here; I feel her continually knocking
at my heart, saying ‘Uncle Tom, come home.’ Pray on dear girl, and when
my mission is ended, may father, son, mother and child meet in that happy
hunting ground where there will be no father’s blood to avenge.”

Here Tom was interrupted in his soliloquy by an unusual noise in his
pig pen. He was always on the alert, knowing that the Indians intended
to shed his blood and take his scalp. Therefore he took notice of every
sound. It was uncommon for the pig to squeal. This squeal sounded
unnatural, and Tom concluded that the squealing emanated from the throat
of an Indian. “Some new deviltry is going on; that squeal sounds more like
a two legged devil than a four legged hog. Come Tom, (taking his gun)
let us look around and see if one of those pesky red skins is trying to
steal our pork, (Pig squeals.) That is pretty well done, yet the genuine
hog grammar is left out. You forget to dot your I’s and cross your T’s.
(Squeals again.) That is a little better, and might deceive a boy, but
it won’t me. Tom is too old for that. You had better stop squealing and
go to praying for the devil will have a new comer before morning, or my
name is not Tom Quick. Come Tom (taking up his gun) let us walk around
and see how his porkship looks in the rear.” Tom passes through his
cabin and appears to the left of the pig pen. He was not mistaken in his
calculation, for there he saw a powerful Indian holding the hog with the
left hand, while he held the gun in his right, ready to shoot Tom when
he came to see what was the matter with the pig. Tom aimed and fired.
The Indian gave one whoop, leaped in the air, and fell on the outside of
the pen dead. A ball had pierced his head. Tom placed his foot on the
Indian’s breast.

Well done, Tom, patting his gun. Well done. Let me see. That makes the
record just eighty-seven red devils that I have sent to the Spirit World
since Muswink murdered my father. Let me see. According to old Daball, it
will take just thirteen more to make an even hundred. Tom, let us pray.

He kneels, holding the gun before him.

Good Lord, or good devil—either one or both, I do hereby pray that I may
be permitted to remain in this mortal coil until I have sent thirteen
more Indians to the Spirit Land. Then I shall be ready and willing to
depart to the Hunter’s Paradise. Amen.

Tom gets up off his knees and turns the Indian over with his foot.

Well, Mr. Squealer, why don’t you squeal now? I guess that Long Tom has
taken all the squeal out of you. I suppose that when the bullet went
in, the squeal went out. But I must get rid of you. You will smell bad
here and will invite the bears and wolves to view your miserable carcass.
Come, take your last leap down the rocks.

Then Tom threw his carcass down the rocks and went on his way rejoicing.

The stories of Tom’s adventures are legion, and for nearly one hundred
years have been told. The author heard them related nearly seventy years
ago. His father lived in the days of Tom Quick and was conversant with
his history.

Tom made it his habit to watch the Indians and shoot them as they went up
and down the Delaware in their canoes and frequently waylaid them as they
traveled through the country on their trails or deerpaths.

With these paths he was well acquainted and would spend days and months
lurking in the vicinity of their haunts for the purpose of getting a shot
at one or more of them. Every few days an Indian was missed. He was last
seen in the company of Tom, but never after.

The Indians knew that Tom had sworn that he would kill them whenever
opportunity offered. Consequently, when an Indian was missing it was laid
to Tom.

Furthermore, Tom had a knack of finding a great many guns in his travels
through the woods. It was usually thought that he found the Indian that
owned the gun before he found the gun.

For this reason the Indians were not only anxious, but determined to
kill him. Many a ball had been fired at him, but they all went wide of
the mark. The Indians believed that the white man’s God protected him,
that he had a charmed life, and could not be hit by a bullet fired by an
Indian. They therefore resolved to take him alive, and to that end six
Braves were appointed to watch and capture him.

It so happened that about this time Tom was splitting rails for a Mr.
Westbrook who then lived in the Mamakating Valley. Tom wished to get the
rails split in the forenoon as he had been informed that there was to be
total eclipse of the sun about one o’clock in the afternoon, and that
it would then be so dark that he could not see to work. The log he was
trying to split was winding and cross grained, and the blows of the heavy
beetle on the wedges failed to open the log. Tom was nearly out of breath
and quite out of patience, and commenced talking to himself.

“Here I am at Westbrookville splitting rails. I should be at Shohola
splitting heads and scattering Indian brains. That would be more in
keeping with my conscience, than to stand here and pound these wedges.
Confound the log, it is as cross grained as a peperage, and sticks to
the bark as close as an Indian to his scalping knife. Curse the red
Devils, I long to see the last one killed and scalped. If there was more
Tom Quick’s there would be less Indians. Well, they are growing less
every day. Yesterday I sent five more to the Spirit land. Yesterday I
colored Butler’s Falls with blood. Yesterday the hawks at Hawk’s Nest
mountain wafted the spirits of five more to the Indians’ eternal hunting
ground. There were big spirits and little spirits. It was easy to pop
over the old man and his Squaw, but when it came to knocking out the
brains of the little babe, that kinder went against the grain. Confound
the little redskin, he looked me right in the eye and laughed—as much as
to say, ‘Uncle Tom don’t.’ I most wish that I had spared the boy to see
if anything could be made out of a redskin. But pshaw! Papooses become
Indians as surely as nits become lice. But I must go to work, or the
sun will darken before I get these rails split. To-day comes the great
eclipse of the sun and soon that orb from which we receive light and heat
will be obscured, and the earth will be wrapped in the mantle of night. I
see that it is approaching and darkness will soon prevail.”

This soliloquy nearly cost Tom his life. Whilst he was talking six dusky
Indians were noiselessly crawling toward him. So stealthily had been
their approach that Tom was not aware of their presence until he was
grasped by two stalwart Indians. He sprang for his rifle, dragging the
Indians with him, but the others came and Tom was overpowered. He saw his
peril and knew that it was only by strategy that he could escape. The
fact of the eclipse flashed across his mind and he resolved at once to
excite the superstition of the Indians by appealing to the white man’s
God.

Hawkeye was the first to break the silence. “Pale face, your time has
come. The Avenger of the Delaware Valley must die. At sun down you can
fight faggot and fire. Now call on the white man’s God and see if he will
save you.”

Tom replied: “The white man’s God is the Indian’s great spirit; that
spirit is here and talks with me.”

Hawkeye looked at Tom with astonishment. “What does the white man’s God
say?”

Tom replied: “He says that Indian tells the truth—that my time has
come—that I must die—that I must not fight the Indians anymore, but must
go with you as soon as my work is done.”

Hawkeye looked pleased and said: “What work?”

“Finish splitting this log,” replied Tom.

The Indians were so pleased to capture Tom without a fight that they were
thrown off their guard and laid down their arms.

What more does the white man’s God say, inquired Hawkeye?

He says, replied Tom, that you must help me split this log and that he
will darken the sun until you light the fire about me. See, the sun
darkens, the work of the Great Spirit has begun, and it will soon be
night at noon-day.

The sun was partially eclipsed and the Indians gazed with astonishment.
Hawkeye seemed dumbfounded and stammered out: White man’s God great and
powerful. How did he say Indian help?

Tom replied: Get three on a side and pull when I strike the wedge. The
Indians obeyed and arranged themselves three on each side of the log with
their fingers in the crack of the log.

We ready, strike the wedge, said Hawkeye.

Tom struck; but instead of striking the wedge in, he struck it out, and
the Indians were fast in the log as much so as if they had been screwed
in a vice.

Tom was jubilant. He now had the six Indians in his power and could kill
them at his leisure. He gave one of his peculiar laughs and said: Ha! Ha!
Mr. Indians, the white man’s God says more. He says you Indians must die.
Look at the waning sun. When that becomes dark, you Indians will be in
the Spirit world. It grows darker, darker. Your time has come—now you die.

The eclipse was now nearly total, and Tom proceeded to the execution of
his purpose; by knocking their brains out with the beetle. And then left
for the house, leaving the Indians still fast in the log to become food
for bears and wolves.



CHAPTER XXIV.

    Killing a Buck with Seven Skins.


Tom had a great many cabins or caves between the Water Gap and Shohola,
and was never at a loss for a place to stay over night. But he usually
wintered at the house of some mutual friend, and the terms upon which he
stayed was that he should furnish the winter meat. Any family living on
the border was anxious and willing to board him; for during his stay they
were sure of being provided with plenty of game and living on the fat of
the land.

On one occasion winter set in earlier than usual and he did not have his
usual supply of venison on hand to supply the table of the friend with
whom he intended to winter. He made arrangements for a long hunt in a
part of the country where he knew that game was plenty, and in a few days
he would get sufficient to supply his friend’s cabin for a long time.

The night before he intended to start, a friendly Indian called at the
cabin and asked to stay over night, which was granted.

Tom was suspicious, although the Indian appeared to be friendly. They
soon became acquainted, and it was not long before they agreed to go on
a hunt, Tom agreeing to take the venison for his part and the Indian the
skins.

Game was plenty, especially deer. In fact the woods seemed to be full of
them. It was bang!—bang!—bang! and at every report a deer fell. They were
soon skinned and the hind quarters hung up out of the reach of bears and
wolves until Tom could get time to take them to the cabin.

When they came to count, they found that they had killed seven. The
Indian was in the best of spirits, and so was his companion.

Me lucky, said the Indian. Me got seven skins. They worth seven dollars.
That buy me piles of fire water, powder and lead. Whoop! Whoop!

Seven skins was all the Indian could carry, and it was resolved to
return, Tom to the cabin, and the Indian to Minisink to get powder, fire
water and lead.

The skins were securely fastened on his back, and they started. But the
Indian never reached the settlement. They had not traveled far before the
report of Tom’s gun was heard, and down went the Indian, the ball having
gone through the seven skins and penetrated his heart.

It was not long after this that another Indian came to the house where
Tom was stopping and asked permission to stay all night, which was
granted. He professed to be very friendly, but Tom’s quick eye soon
discovered that all was not right.

During the evening the savage pretended that he had seen a great many
deer a few miles off, and asked Tom if he wouldn’t like to go the next
day and kill some of them.

Tom pretended that he was pleased with the offer, and at once agreed to
go with the Indian. But Tom was on the alert. He was well convinced that
some Indian deviltry lay behind this pretended friendship, and acted
accordingly.

During the night he managed to get the Indian’s rifle and draw the charge
and substituted ashes in the place of powder, put the ball back in the
barrel, and placed the rifle carefully back where he got it. The next
morning the savage slyly inserted the ramrod in the barrel of his rifle,
examined the priming, picked the flint and seemed satisfied that all was
right. During this time Tom watched him intently and was more than ever
convinced that the Indian intended to take his life. But he manifested no
particular interest and started out on the hunt with no apparent concern.
The snow was deep and the hunters found it inconvenient to travel through
it, and to make the walking easier the Indian proposed that one of them
should go ahead to break the path. To this Tom readily agreed and started
on ahead. A twinkle of the eye showed that the Indian was pleased, but
Tom’s keen eye had observed that twinkle and the satisfaction that beamed
on the Indian’s countenance. When they had proceeded a mile or two and
had come to a very lonely place Tom heard the Indian’s gun snap and the
powder flash in the pan, and looking back, asked the Indian what he had
fired at. A fine buck, was his reply. The Indian reprimed his gun and
they started on. In a few minutes Tom heard another snap and flash. Well,
brother, what did you see this time? An eagle swept over the forest,
replied the disappointed savage, at the same time priming his gun.

Brother Indian, said Tom, the snow is deep and I am tired.

Yes, brother, the Indian replied, and sullenly took his place in advance.
Tom was now ripe for blood. He raised his rifle and took deadly aim at
the Indian. Lying dog, what do you see now? The Spirit World, and drew
the blanket over his head. You came to kill me.

Yes, replied the Indian, but you have fooled my gun.

And long Tom shall fool you. Tom’s rifle spoke and the Indian was in the
Spirit World.

One day in Tom’s wandering through the woods without his rifle he met a
young Indian armed. They soon became apparent friends. Brother Indian,
said Tom, did you ever see Tom Quick the Indian Slayer?

No, replied the youth, but I would like to see him.

I will show him to you, follow me. They walked on until they came to a
ledge of rocks, and Tom peered over. I do not see him yet, he said, but
he will soon be along. Here he comes now. You take my place if you want
to get a good sight of him.

The Indian cocked his rifle and hastily and eagerly advanced to Tom’s
side. Where is he? excitedly inquired the red man.

There, there, said Tom, pointing so that the Indian would lean over the
brink in his desire to shoot the enemy of his race. A little further, a
little further, whispered the Indian slayer to his proposed victim. The
Indian hung over the precipice as far as he could without falling. Tom
grasped him by the shoulders and said: Shoot me would you! Shoot me, and
hurled him over the precipice. He fell on the rocks below and was dashed
to pieces. And Tom went on his way rejoicing, leaving the body of his
victim to be devoured by the crows.


HIDING GUNS IN HOLLOW TREES.

Tom’s habit of hiding guns in hollow trees in the woods on one occasion
saved his life. Two Indians had captured him near Grass Brook and were
taking him off. He seemed perfectly resigned to his fate which appeared
unavoidable, and marched with them unreluctantly. His arms were pinioned
with deer shins thongs, and his captors kept upon him a vigilant eye,
and were ready at any moment to shoot him if he attempted to break away
from them. After a while they were visited by a shower of rain, and Tom
found that the thongs which bound his wrists began to stretch, and that
they had become so loose that he could at any time free his hands. He was
very careful to conceal this fact from the savages, and patiently waited
for a favorable time to run or do something else to escape. Beside the
path that they were pursuing there was a very large chestnut tree which
was hollow, and on the side of the trunk that was the farthest from the
path, the wood had entirely rotted away leaving a large hollow space.
In the opening thus made, Tom had long before concealed several guns
which he had found beside dead Indians. He had also deposited with them
a flask of powder and a goodly store of bullets. When they had reached
this tree, Tom expressed an urgent desire to go to it, and gave such a
good reason for the request he made, that his captors consented to let
him go. They permitted him to do so the more readily because he had thus
far given them but little trouble. The Indians cocked their rifles when
Tom stepped from the path and aimed them at him, each with his finger on
the trigger, and watching him eagerly, determined to bring him down if
he made the least movement to escape. Tom proceeded toward the tree very
leisurely, and on reaching it, went behind it and was concealed from the
view of his enemies. Within the most inconceivable time he charged three
of his weapons with powder and lead. The Indians little thinking what Tom
was about stood in the path with hardly a twig to screen them from his
murderous fire. Tom afterwards said that he did not stop to return the
ramrods to their places until he had as many of his guns loaded as he
thought he should need. He hesitated a moment after he was ready to shoot
fearing that his guns would “miss fire,” in consequence of their late
disuse; but knowing that this was his last chance, he blazed away at one
of the savages who fell dead in his tracks. The other tried to get behind
the nearest unoccupied tree, but he never reached there, a bullet sent
him to the Spirit land, to join hands with those that had been sent there
by Tom’s rifle on many occasions before.


AN OLD LEGEND.

According to an old legend, Tom had a very severe battle with a savage
who came to him while he was in the field at work. Tom saw the Indian
approaching him unarmed and he did not feel afraid to encounter him on
equal terms. The savage told a plausible tale about something that he
pretended he had discovered not far off and which he wished his brother
Yankee to see. Tom apparently without suspecting anything wrong consented
to go with the Indian. His quick eye however saw a gleam of malignant
satisfaction on the countenance of his visitor that told him plainer
than words could have done what was the errand on which the red man was
bent. The savage had discovered Tom from a hill near by and concealed
his gun in the woods hoping to entice Tom to its neighborhood while he
was unarmed and then he could not defend himself. But he counted his
chickens before the eggs were hatched. Tom was never caught napping. He
was now wide awake and concluded that there was a trap set for him. He
had gone but a short distance with the Indian when he came to a hemlock
knot which he concluded would be a very good weapon in a rough and tumble
fight. He stooped to pick it up when the savage perceived what he was at,
he sprang upon him. Then came the tug of war. Tom got hold of the knot;
with the Indian on him, therefore he could not use it. A long struggle
for life or death ensued between them. Tom finally succeeded and was once
more a conqueror. He grappled the Indian by the throat with his teeth and
strangled him to death. But to the day of his death, he averred this was
the hardest and most severe fight of his life.

According to another legend, a native attempted to kill the Indian slayer
while he was engaged in a saw mill. Tom discovered him and arranged his
coat and hat in such a way as to deceive his destroyer. While the savage
thought that he was about to shoot Tom, Tom sent a bullet through the
Indian’s body and his bullets were generally fatal. Thus again the biter
was bitten.

Previous to the Revolutionary War, a man named John Showers lived in a
log house near the Falls of Mongaup. One evening five or six hunters
met at his house which was quite a resort for such people. As the cabin
afforded better accommodations than the forest they concluded to avail
themselves of its shelter through the night. Tom Quick was among the
number. During the evening an Indian came and asked permission to remain
all night. He was told that he could stay. Late in the evening a goodly
number of logs were placed on the fire. The hunters wrapped themselves in
their blankets and laid down on the floor to sleep. They were soon in the
land of dreams except Tom, who was watching silently for a chance to kill
the Indian. One would imagine that he had shed blood enough already. But
Tom thought otherwise. The spirit of his murdered father still animated
him. When the breathing of the sleepers showed that they were sound
asleep, Tom threw aside his blanket and cautiously and noiselessly got
his gun. In a few minutes the hunters were awakened by an explosion. They
found themselves bespattered with brains and the Indian lay dead in their
midst. Quick immediately after the firing left the cabin and disappeared
in the forest. The hunters, after consulting, concluded the murder of the
Indian should be concealed, in order to avoid any unpleasant consequences
which might follow, if the Indians knew of it. The Indian was buried in
the morning, and his death was unknown to any except the hunters, until
concealment was no longer necessary.



CHAPTER XXV.

    The Whiskey Scene. Six Indians Roasted.


Near the close of Tom’s life, he was living in a cabin near Barryville.
Time had begun to tell on him, yet his work was not done. The murderer of
his father still lived, and the pride of his life was to kill Muswink.
He was contemplating this tragedy as he stood at the door of his cabin
and gave vent to his pent up feelings in the following soliloquy:—

“My work is nearly done, and Indian scalps are growing scarce. Their
number now stands at 93. The contract is 100. O, that I could meet
and kill and scalp Muswink; then my work would be done and vengeance
satisfied. It was he that fired the first gun. It was he that robbed the
dead body of my father. It was he that fired my heart and made me the
avenger of the Delaware Valley. It was he that made me vow at my father’s
grave, ‘To kill all, to spare none.’ That vow I have kept, but Muswink
still lives. These hairs are growing gray; these limbs are growing stiff;
my work is not yet done. Muswink must—shall die. To-morrow I’ll go to the
Neversink and at Decker’s tavern. I will kill and scalp the murderer of
my father. Then I will go to Rosencrance’s in the clove and die. There I
shall meet again and for the last time, brothers, sisters and friends.
In love they will close my eyes and lay me away. There I shall sweetly
sleep until Gabriel blows his horn and says, ‘Those that are in the grave
come forth.’ Then Tom will come forth with a hundred Indian scalps in his
crown as evidence that I have been a true and faithful avenger. But I
tire; I must go to my couch and dream of Muswink and to-morrow.”

Tom enters his cabin and goes to bed. Six Indians that were bent on
his destruction had been watching him, and were then planning how they
could take him alive. Noiselessly they approach the cabin and find Tom
asleep. He is seized and taken out of the cabin and tied to a tree.
Then they went for Tom’s property which consisted of skins, furs and a
keg of brandy. Their joy at finding the brandy was unbounded and caused
them in a measure to forget Tom. They imbibed freely and a drunken
revelry ensues, and all fall asleep but one. This one was bound to put
Tom beyond the means of escape. He takes torch in one hand and a knife
in the other and starts to kill him, but the brandy had done its work.
He stumbled and fell across Tom’s body, and soon was in an unconscious
drunken slumber.

Tom gets his knife, cuts his bands and escapes. The torch the Indian
carried sets fire to the cabin and the Indians are roasted in the flames.
Tom views the fire from a distance and exclaims:

That is putting the shoe on the other foot. They intended to burn me, but
they are now charcoal. But they are out of my way, and I am out their
scalps. That makes 99. Now for the Neversink, Muswink and 100.

A few days after this a number of farmers were assembled at Decker’s
tavern, among which were the Cuddebacks, Gumaers and Swartwouts
discussing a horse race that had taken place but a few days before, when
Muswink suddenly appeared. Ugh! Ugh! here you all be; come and drink with
the Indian that killed and scalped old Tom Quick. Come along, all of you.
The war is over and the hatchet is buried.

Don’t to be too sure of that, said Gumaer. His son, Tom, still lives, and
with him the hatchet will never be buried until he has your scalp.

Ugh! Tom Quick take my scalp? When he does, he is welcome to it, replied
Muswink.

I understand that he is in the neighborhood and is likely to drop in here
at any moment, said Cuddeback.

Let him drop, said Muswink. I can handle him as easy as I did his father.

Maybe not, said Swartwout. You had the first shot then. He may get the
first now.

Never, replied the savage. Muswink always ready. Ugh! Ugh! Ugh! Here he
comes now.

At this moment Tom enters the door and Muswink salutes him: Ugh! He looks
just like his father.

Tom was exasperated and seized a chair, but was prevented from striking
him by those present.

Muswink continued: Look Tom, I will show you what a pretty face the
old man made when I jerked his scalp off. (Here Muswink made hideous
grimaces.) Wan’t that a pretty face for an old man to make. I wonder if
his son can beat it.

Scoundrel, exclaimed Tom, raising a chair.

Stop, said Gumaer. No blood shed here.

Let him come, said Muswink. I can pull off his shirt as easily as I did
his father’s sleeve buttons. Tom, do you know these buttons? (Showing
them.) Do you know that I tore them from his shirt the same time I did
the scalp from his head.

Tom could control his feelings no longer and sprang for a gun that was
hanging over the fire-place, cocked it and presented it at the breast of
Muswink, exclaiming, March!

March, where? said the frightened Indian. This was the first that he had
realized his danger. He read his doom in Tom’s countenance.

March! Tom repeated for the second time. Muswink leaves the house closely
followed by Tom with the gun at his shoulder ready to shoot in case his
victim attempted to escape. Tom drove him down the road that leads from
Cuddebackville to Carpenter’s Point. There in a thick cluster of pines
Muswink turns toward Tom and said: Tom, would you shoot me?

Yes, replied Tom, you shot my father.

But, Tom, the war is over and peace is declared.

Tom raised his rifle and exclaimed in a stentorian voice: The war is not
over but still rages in my breast, and peace will not be declared until
you die. Die, dog, die.

Tom’s gun spoke and was heard at Decker’s tavern, and at that same
instant Muswink went to the Spirit World. Tom silently viewed his corpse
for a few minutes and then exclaimed: Vengeance is satisfied. I swore to
drive the last red skin from the Delaware Valley. I swore to spare none.
I swore to kill the old man with silver hair, the lisping babe without
teeth; the mother quick with child; and the maid in the bloom of youth. I
have done it. The valley is clear. The Indians have gone west or to the
Spirit World. There lies the last of his accursed race. Dog, I will not
dirty my fingers with his scalp. I will leave his body to be cooked and
dried by the sun, and the scalp to be torn from his head by the wolves. I
will now return to the mountains and talk with my father’s spirit.

Tom Quick was not destined to fall by the hand of his Indian foes, nor to
be successfully captured by white men.



CHAPTER XXVI.

    Capture, Escape and Death of Tom.


After the death of Muswink, the authorities attempted to arrest Tom,
and bring him to trial. Not that they thought him guilty of any serious
crime, but that he might be the means of bringing on another Indian War.
Most of the people justified the killing of Muswink. First, because
he was the murderer of his father; secondly, the provocation given by
Muswink at Decker’s Tavern justified Tom in slaying him.

But at last he was arrested, tied and put in a sleigh to be taken to
Newton where he was to be tried for murder. But with the assistance of
some friends, he made his escape, ran to the river, and plunged in,
amid ice and snow, and crossed to the west bank of the river, where he
was concealed and fed by his friends for two months, and then made his
appearance in public again, and died at the house of Jacobus Rosencrance
in 1756.

Tradition says, he died of Smallpox. That the Indians hearing of his
death, dug up his remains, and distributed them among several tribes of
Indians. The Smallpox became prevalent and several tribes were nearly
annihilated. Thus, Samsonlike, “he slew more at his death than he did
when living.”

Tom Quick’s death was in keeping with his life. He firmly believed that
he was appointed by God to avenge his father’s death. At times he had
fears that his father’s spirit would be offended because he had not sent
more Indians to the Spirit world.

Tom loved his rifle and called the scalps he had taken “his crowns, his
jewels,” his passports to the Spirit world.

A short time before his death, he said to the persons that were around
him: I am going to meet my father, and fell back on his pillow. When he
awoke, he seemed to be disappointed, and looked around in a bewildered
gaze: “Where am I? Is this heaven? No this is earth. But I am in sight of
heaven. I see the silver lining behind the cloud. I see the portals open.
I hear my father say—Come Tom, come. Where is my old companion? (His gun
is handed him). Faithful to the last. Where are my jewels, my crowns? (A
string of scalps is handed him.) These are crowns of glory, my passports
to the Spirit World. Father, I come.” And dropped back dead.

Thus ended Thomas Quick, Jr. One of the most remarkable characters that
ever lived in the Delaware Valley. His ashes now repose on the spot
where he was born. (Milford, Pa.) And after nearly one hundred years, a
suitable monument has been erected, to perpetuate his memory.

The reader may ask, What excuse is there for his several crimes? A
conversation that took place between his mother and Maggie Quick his
niece, answers the question: Grandma what makes Uncle Tom act so queer,
and stay away from home so much?

Her grandma answered: The murder of his father _turned his head_, and now
he is not responsible for anything he _says or does_.

Yes it was the murder of his father that turned his head, and made him
the _avenger_ of the Delaware Valley.

Gardner, in his life of Tom Quick, page 17, says: It was this sad
event that fired the heart of the bereaved and frantic son. Tom was
transformed. He was from that time forward known as the “Indian Slayer,”
or as he called himself, “the Avenger of the Delaware.” Rough in his
manners, having been accustomed from infancy as much to Indian as to
civilized life, he had a heart which beat with the warmest affection
toward all his kindred, especially his father.

The spot where his father fell beneath the ball and the scalping knife of
the Indians, was a Carthaginian altar to him. Hamlibar, brought his son
Hannibal to the altar of the Gods, that he might swear eternal enmity to
Rome.

Tom Quick’s consecration to the destruction of the race whose warriors
had wrought the death of his father, lacked indeed the forms of religious
rites, but possessed the substance, and no more steadily on a wider field
did the son of Hamlibar follow out the pledges of his youth, than did Tom
Quick press on to the fulfillment of his vow of vengeance, thinking as
he did, “that the blood of the whole Indian race was not sufficient to
atone for the blood of his father.” His oath was not violated. He lived
to see the day when he could traverse the river from one end to the other
without encountering a red man.

But as we have said before, Tom Quick was now transformed. He took to
himself the title of the “Avenger of the Delaware.” He who had before
been a friend to both white and Indian, now carried with him a double
spirit, having no sentiment but that of friendship for the settlers and
love for his kindred, he had intense hatred and loathing toward the
Indians.

Cato, on a broader field, in the presence of the Roman Senate, and with
comparatively little provocation, was accustomed to close his speeches
with the exclamation: “Delenda est Carthage,” Let Carthage be destroyed!
Those who heard him applauded, and his name appears high in history as
a Roman patriot. The appeal of Cato was prompted by jealousy of the
rising and rival power of Carthage. “Let the Indians be destroyed,” was
the sentiment of Tom Quick. Between the two, as regards provocation, Tom
Quick stands upon the higher ground.

Some allowance should be made in Tom’s favor. The times in which he
lived should be taken into consideration. He was born in 1734 and died
in 1796, therefore he lived through the tragic times of the French and
English, and Revolutionary Wars. He lived at a time when an enemy’s life
was cheap; he lived at a time when a reward was paid for Indian scalps.
Orders were issued to that effect from the Government: “You are to
acquaint the men, that if in their ranging if they meet with or at any
time are attacked by the enemy and kill any of them, Forty Dollars will
be allowed and paid by the Government for each scalp of an Indian enemy
so killed.”

This was in 1756. In 1764 the bounties by Penn were:—“For every male
above ten years captured $150, scalped, being killed $134; for every
female Indian enemy, and every male under ten years of age, captured
$130; for every female above ten years of age, scalped being killed $30.”

But we have no record that Tom received any bounty. The presumption is
that he scalped to revenge his father’s death and not for money. But
the strongest proof that Tom’s actions were approved by the people, and
that he was looked upon by the settlers as a protector of their homes
and the guardian of their wives and children, is the fact that he was
always welcome to their houses, and a plate placed for him at the table.
Not only this, but the fact that they universally screened him from the
Government officers. In a word, they were proud to think that one of
their number had the courage to face the whole Indian nation of red skins.

Such was the opinion of the early settlers of the character of our hero,
and time has not changed that opinion.

His life and character has been published to the world. Historians have
eulogized his merits. Dramatists have exemplified his life and character
on the stage, and the descendants of the early settlers have raised a
monument over his dust in his native town, at the spot where he was born
to perpetuate his memory.

His historians have been James Quinlan of Monticello, N. Y., P. H. Smith,
of Newburgh, N. Y., Wm. Bross, of Chicago, Ills., and A. S. Gardner, of
Milford, Pa.

In 1888, James M. Allerton of Port Jervis, N. Y., published a drama in
five acts entitled, “Tom Quick the Avenger, or One Hundred for One,”
which was well received by the public.

And then to crown all, his descendants on the 28th of August 1889,
unveiled a monument to his memory, in the presence of a thousand persons,
amid the roar of cannon and the huzzahs of a thousand voices.

The monument stands in a street sixty feet wide, a street which is
destined to be a part of one of the leading pleasure drives of Milford.

From the monument can be seen a range of hills extending all around the
village. Also in the distance the Shawangunk mountains in New Jersey.
Near by is the Van de Mark, which comes from a distance among the hills
towards the northwest, and flows southeastward until it empties at
Milford eddy into the Delaware.

The inscriptions on the monument are as follows:

On the side looking east: Emblem on shaft, a wreath. Inscription on die:

       Tom Quick was the first white child born within the limits
            of the present Borough of Milford. This spot was
            his birth-place and home till the cruel death of
                    his father by the Indians, 1756.

On the base next to the die:

                      Tom Quick, the Indian Slayer;
                                   or
                      The Avenger of the Delaware.

On side of monument looking south: Emblem on shaft the following grouped
together and united by a shield: Tomahawk, canoe paddle, scalping knife,
calumet, wampum. Inscription on die:

         Maddened by the death of his father in the hands of the
            Savages, Tom Quick never abated his hostility to
              them until the day of his death, a period of
                            over forty years.

On base next to the die:

        Tom Quick died in 1796, at the house of James Rosecrantz
       on the banks of the Delaware, five miles northeast of this
            spot, and was buried on the farm of his friend in
             what is now the Rose Cemetery, two miles south
                 of Matamoras. His remains were taken up
                on the 110th anniversary of the battle of
                    the Minisink, July 22d, 1889, and
                           placed beneath this
                                monument.

On north side: Emblem on shaft, plow. Inscription on die:

        Thomas Quick, Sr., Father of Tom Quick, his oldest child
            emigrated from Holland to America, and settled on
          this spot in 1733. He was the first white settler in
              this part of the upper Delaware, and his Log
                 Cabin Saw Mill and Grist Mill, built on
                   this bank of the Van De Mark, were
                    the first structures ever erected
                              by white men
                    in the settlement of this region.

On the base next the die:

         After a peaceful residence here of twenty years, and of
           unbroken friendship with the Indians, Thomas Quick,
          Sr., while crossing the Delaware on the ice, carrying
                  a grist on his shoulder, was shot and
                  scalped by his supposed friends, the
                   Delawares, who were lying in ambush
                      along the bluff on the south
                      side of the mouth of the Van
                        De Mark, and half a mile
                           east of his humble
                                  home.

On west side: Emblem on shaft, flag of the United States on standard and
partly furled. Inscription on die:

           This monument was erected by a descendant of Thomas
          Quick, of the fourth generation; in youth a resident
             of Milford, in age, one of the founders of the
                “Chicago Tribune,” and from 1865 to 1869
                    Lieutenant Governor of the State
                              of Illinois.

Inscription on base next to die:

         Done under the direction of Rev. A. S. Gardiner, Pastor
           of the First Presbyterian Church of Milford, 1889.



APPENDIX.


=Page 6.—High Point.= Is situated in Sussex Co., 5½ miles southeast of
Port Jervis, and is the most elevated land in the State of New Jersey,
being 1804 feet above the level of the sea and 1395 feet above the
Delaware Valley at Tri-States Rock. From its peak twenty-seven cities
and villages can be seen. The scenery is grand and sublime. Extending
north to the Catskills, south to the Water Gap, east to the Highlands
and west across the Delaware, Neversink and Mamakating Valleys; while
the pure air from the pine forests of Sullivan County drives the malaria
and mosquitoes toward the Atlantic. It is crowned by a beautiful lake,
supplied by pure crystal spring water, and a first-class hotel, where the
wants of the inner man can be supplied.

=Page 9.—Peenpack Ford.= Was the usual place of crossing the Neversink
River in early times, and was located south-east of the present residence
of Peter D. Swartwout. It is now crossed by an iron bridge.

=Page 15.—Steneykill.= A small stream of water that rises near the “Old
Jersey claim line,” in lot 36 of the first division of the Minisink
Patent, at the outlet of Long Swamp, which was originally a Beaver Dam,
and runs through lot 40 of the 7th division of the Minisink Patent, and
empties into the Shinglekill on lot 41; on the farm formerly owned by
John Van Etten and now owned by F. H. Maguire.

=Page 19.—Shinglekill.= A stream of water flowing out of Big Pond about
two miles west of Peenpack (Huguenot,) and flows through lots 41 and 42
of the 7th division of the Minisink Patent, and empties into the Delaware
River at Bolton Basin. Shinglekill Island where Drake landed the raft is
just west of the mouth of the Shinglekill Brook, and the Beneykill is the
water that flows between the Island and the west shore.

=Page 23.—Charles Webb.= In 1704, Her Late Majesty Queen Ann granted
to Matthew Ling and others, the land now included within the Minisink
Patent. John Thomas and Stephen Crane were appointed Commissioners, and
Charles Webb, surveyor. Between 1704 and 1763, Charles Webb surveyed the
several divisions and filed the map in the office of the Secretary of
State on the 14th day of February 1763. The only remaining copy of that
map is in the possession of the author, and it was while Charles Webb was
making this survey that he found Walter Wallace, one of the heroes of our
tale.

=Page 34.—Bottle Rock.= A large rock in the Neversink River in the shape
of a bottle, on land formerly owned by Abraham J. Cuddeback.

=Page 35.—Sand Hill.= This was the Indian Cemetery and is situated on
the west side of the Neversink River, about three miles northeast of the
“Tri-States Rock,” on the farm now (1892) owned by Levi Van Etten. The
river has washed the most of it away, and frequently skeletons of Indians
that were buried hundreds of years ago are exposed to view.

=Page 36.—Handy Hill.= Is a ridge of land extending northeasterly from
Big Pond to Hartwood. A noted hunter by the name of Handy formerly lived
there. The Handy Town road was the first road laid out in the town of
Deerpark leading from the Neversink Valley to Sullivan County.

=Page 38.—The Grave= of Mary Powers was on the bank of the Delaware
River, about forty rods northwest of the Shinglekill. The stone wall
around it was visible in 1840, since that the bank has slid down into the
canal.

=Page 60.—Flat Boat.= This was a craft about thirty feet long and twelve
feet wide, and was used in early times by the Indian traders to transport
their goods to the head waters of the Delaware, where they exchanged
their goods with the Indians for furs. They towed or poled the boat up
the River, and floated down with the current.

=Page 86.—Hollicot Glen.= This was a narrow gulch on the old Mill Dam
Brook, about one mile west of Peenpack.

=Page 87.—Spring Brook.= In the early history of the Valley a Spring
Brook run from about where the Erie Railroad Round House in Port Jervis
is, to the Delaware River.

=Page 89.—Battle of the Neversink.= Tradition says, that the bodies of
those that perished in the Battle of the Neversink, were buried in three
pits near the bank of the Delaware River. In the year 1847, the New
York and Erie Railroad was built through the Village of Port Jervis. In
excavating and removing the earth near the bank of the river southwest
of Front Street, and about two hundred feet from the south side of the
street, on or near the land formerly owned by J. H. Dimmick, and used by
him as a lumber yard, three places were opened containing human bones.
They were remarkably preserved. The author saw several skulls in which
their teeth retained their whiteness. Joseph Van Inwegen was foreman of
the work, and Thomas Goble was one of the teamsters. They are both dead
now. A few days before the death of Goble, the author requested Dr. W. L.
Cuddeback to call on Goble and inquire of him in relation to the finding
of human bones at the time they were building the railroad through Port
Jervis. The Doctor called on Goble, who related the fact of finding the
bones substantially as stated by the author. The place of these pits was
pointed out to the author by Jacob C. Wilson.

=Page 96.—Skull Rock.= This rock is situated in the Town of Lumberland,
Sullivan County, N. Y. About one and a half miles east of Pond Eddy, and
one fourth of a mile west of Fish Cabin Brook. The projecting rock shown
in the engraving at page 96 was blasted off during the building of the
Delaware and Hudson Canal.

=Page 105.—Bushkill Falls.= These Falls are on the Bushkill Brook which
rises at the Sand Springs on the Texas property, and about a half a mile
west of Rio Post Office, and three fourths of a mile east of the Mongaup
River. The Rattle Snake den has been blasted out to get quarry stone.
Formerly trout were numerous in this stream, which is located in lot No.
38 of the 7th Division, of the Minisink Patent in the Town of Deerpark.

=Page 175.—Yah House, or Hunting House.= Was situated at or near
Wurtsboro, Sullivan Co., N. Y. It was at this house that Charles Webb
commenced the survey of the Minisink Patent.

=Page 210.—Fort Dewitt, now Port Clinton.= Is situated on the south side
of the Neversink River, one mile south of Cuddebackville, and about one
eighth of a mile east of the aqueduct over the Delaware and Hudson Canal.
Governor Dewitt Clinton was born in this house. His parents resided in
the Town of Montgomery, and his mother was on a visit to the Dewitt
family at the time of his birth, where she had been detained for several
days by a long northeast snow storm.

=Page 210.—Cahoonshee Trail.= The road running from Huguenot to Mongaup
bridge is nearly on this trail and strikes the Mongaup River opposite
Grassy Brook. The trail continued northwest to Cochecton in Sullivan Co.
This was the trail taken by Brandt after his raid in the Neversink Valley
in July 1779, in which he was followed by Colonel Hawthorn and Tusten,
and ended in the Battle of Minisink, in the Town of Highland, Sullivan
Co., on the 22nd day of July 1779.

=Page 212.—Grave of Cahoonshee.= Cahoonshee was buried on Sub. Div. Lot
No. 7 of the 17th Div. of the Minisink Patent, about one hundred feet
east of the Plank Road, and directly in the rear of the Baptist Church
on the farm formerly owned by the author, later by John L. Chase and now
owned by Jacob Bauer. In 1839 the grave of Cahoonshee was pointed out to
the author by an old resident of the Town of Deerpark by the name of
Jacob C. Wilson. He was a man of limited education, but of an enquiring
mind and retentive memory. He was well read in history, both ancient
and modern, especially English, French, Holland, Roman and Egyptian.
He had American History at his tongue’s end, and especially that part
that related to the North American Indians. He was conversant with the
traditional history of the Delaware, Neversink and Mamakating Valleys,
and to him more than any other one the author is indebted for the facts
contained in this book. The pits containing the remains of those that
fell in the battle of the Neversink, and the grave of Mary Powers he
pointed out to me when I was a boy. Soon after he showed me the grave
of Cahoonshee. At that time I trimmed up a small pine tree, that was
then about 4 inches in diameter, which stood about eight feet north of
Cahoonshee’s grave. This tree grew to be about three feet in diameter. In
1885 it was struck by lightening, and is now (1892) dead, and only a dead
white stump about twelve feet high marks the resting place of the Indian
Warrior Cahoonshee. I deem it proper to say that when Jacob C. Wilson
died, he was buried but a few feet from Cahoonshee in this secluded
cemetery. But a few years later his remains were removed to Quarry Hill
Cemetery. I am indebted to several other persons for the traditions upon
which the “Hawk’s Nest” is founded among which are Boltos Nearpass, David
Canfield and Jonathan Corey.

=Page 213.—Johannes Casparus Freyenmout.= Was the first Minister of the
Gospel that preached in the Delaware Valley. His church was built of
logs, and was situated within the present limits of the Village of Port
Jervis, on land now (1892) owned by Eli Van Inwegen, on the northeast
corner of New Jersey Avenue, and Main Street, opposite the old burying
ground, and was destroyed by Brandt in 1779.

=Page 220.—Farming.= It is the opinion of the author that at the
commencement of the Revolutionary War, there was more land under
cultivation than there is at the present time. Their farming implements
consisted of a wooden mould board plough, grain sickle, grass scythe and
hoe. With these simple tools they harvested more grain, cut more grass
and made more money than the farmers of the present day.

=Page 223.—Tom Quick’s Gun.= Is in the possession of the author. It has
been cut off and now measures five feet ten inches, and weighs seventeen
and a half pounds.





*** End of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Hawk's Nest, or The Last of the Cahoonshees. - A Tale of the Delaware Valley and Historical Romance of 1690." ***

Doctrine Publishing Corporation provides digitized public domain materials.
Public domain books belong to the public and we are merely their custodians.
This effort is time consuming and expensive, so in order to keep providing
this resource, we have taken steps to prevent abuse by commercial parties,
including placing technical restrictions on automated querying.

We also ask that you:

+ Make non-commercial use of the files We designed Doctrine Publishing
Corporation's ISYS search for use by individuals, and we request that you
use these files for personal, non-commercial purposes.

+ Refrain from automated querying Do not send automated queries of any sort
to Doctrine Publishing's system: If you are conducting research on machine
translation, optical character recognition or other areas where access to a
large amount of text is helpful, please contact us. We encourage the use of
public domain materials for these purposes and may be able to help.

+ Keep it legal -  Whatever your use, remember that you are responsible for
ensuring that what you are doing is legal. Do not assume that just because
we believe a book is in the public domain for users in the United States,
that the work is also in the public domain for users in other countries.
Whether a book is still in copyright varies from country to country, and we
can't offer guidance on whether any specific use of any specific book is
allowed. Please do not assume that a book's appearance in Doctrine Publishing
ISYS search  means it can be used in any manner anywhere in the world.
Copyright infringement liability can be quite severe.

About ISYS® Search Software
Established in 1988, ISYS Search Software is a global supplier of enterprise
search solutions for business and government.  The company's award-winning
software suite offers a broad range of search, navigation and discovery
solutions for desktop search, intranet search, SharePoint search and embedded
search applications.  ISYS has been deployed by thousands of organizations
operating in a variety of industries, including government, legal, law
enforcement, financial services, healthcare and recruitment.



Home