like him who roams athwart the wastes of the ocean, often forgetting that the spirit of the Creator is abroad equally on the ocean and on the land, ready to receive that homage of his creatures, which is a tribute due to beneficence without bounds, a holiness that is spotless, and a truth that is inherent.
As Jumper, or the Trackless, returned from his constantly recurring visits to our neighbours, we young men waited with impatience for the letter that the messenger was certain to bear. This letter was sometimes written by Herman Mordaunt himself, but oftener by Anneke, or Mary Wallace. It was addressed to no one by name, but uniformly bore the superscription of ‘To the Hermits of Mooseridge;’ nor was there anything in the language to betray any particular attention to either of the party. We might have liked it better, perhaps, could we have received epistles that were a little more pointed in this particular; but those we actually got were much too precious to leave any serious grounds of complaint. One from Herman Mordaunt reached us on the evening of the second Saturday, when our whole party was at home, and assembled at supper. It was brought in by the Trackless, and, among other matters, contained this paragraph:
“We learn that things hourly assume a more serious aspect with the armies. Our troops are pushing north, in large bodies, and the French are said to be reinforcing. Living as we do, out of the direct line of march, and fully thirty miles in the rear of the old battle-grounds, I should feel no apprehension, were it not for a report I hear, that the woods are full of Indians. I very well know that such a report invariably accompanies the near approach of hostilities in the frontier settlements, and is to be received with many grains of allowance; but it seems so probable the French should push their savages on this flank of our army, to annoy it on the advance, that, I confess, the rumour has some influence on my feelings. We have been fortifying still more; and I would advise you not to neglect such a precaution altogether. The Canadian Indians are said to be more subtle than our own; nor is government altogether without the apprehension that our own have been tampered with. It was said at Albany, that much French silver had been seen in the hands of the people of the Six Nations; and that even French blankets, knives, and tomahawks, were more plentiful among them than might be accounted for by the ordinary plunder of their warfare. One of your runners, the man who is called the Trackless, is said to live out of his own tribe; and such Indians are always to be suspected. Their absence is sometimes owing to reasons that are creditable; but far oftener to those that are not. It may be well to have an eye on the conduct of this man. After all, we are in the hands of a beneficent and gracious God, and we know how often his mercy has saved us, on occasions more trying than this!”
This letter was read several times, among ourselves, including Mr. Traverse. As the oi polloi of our party were eating out of ear-shot, and the Indians had left us, it naturally induced a conversation that turned on the risks we ran, and on the probability of Susquesus’s being false.
“As for the rumour that the woods are full of Indians,” the surveyor quietly observed, “it is very much as Herman Mordaunt says—there is never a blanket seen, but fame magnifies it into a whole bale. There is danger to be apprehended from savages, I will allow, but not one-half that the settlers ordinarily imagine. As for the French, they are likely to need all their savages at Ty; for, they tell me Gen. Abercrombie will go against them with three men to their one.”
“With that superiority, at least,” I answered; “but, after all, would not a sagacious officer be likely to annoy his flank, in the manner here mentioned?”
“We are every mile of forty to the eastward of the line of march; and why should parties keep so distant from their enemies?”
“Even such a supposition would place our foes between us and our friends; no very comfortable consideration, of itself. But, what think you of this hint concerning the Onondago?”
“There may be truth in that—more than in the report that the woods are full of savages. It is usually a bad sign when an Indian quits his tribe; and this runner of ours is certainly an Onondago; that I know, for the fellow has twice refused rum. Bread he will take, as often as offered; but rum has not wet his lips, since I have seen him, offered in fair weather or foul.”
“T’at is a bad sign”—put in Guert, a little dogmatically for him. “T’e man t’at refuses his glass, in good company, has commonly something wrong in his morals. I always keep clear of such chaps.”
Poor Guert!—How true that was, and what an influence the opinion had on his character and habits. As for the Indian, I could not judge him so harshly. There was something in his countenance that disposed me to put confidence in him, at the very moment his cold, abstracted manners—cold and abstracted even for a red-skin in pale-face company—created doubts and distrust.
“Certainly, nothing is easier than for a man in his situation to sell us,” I answered, after a short pause, “if he be so disposed. But, what could the French gain by cutting off a party as peaceably employed as this? It can be of no moment to them, whether Mooseridge be surveyed into lots this year, or the next.”
“Quite true; and I am of opinion that Mons. Montcalm is very indifferent whether it be ever surveyed at all,” returned Traverse, who was an intelligent and tolerably educated man. “You forget, however, Mr. Littlepage, that both parties offer such things as premiums on scalps. A Huron may not care about our lines, corners, and marked trees; but he does care, a great deal, whether he is to go home with an empty string, or with half-a-dozen human scalps at his girdle.”
I observed that Dirck thrust his fingers through his bushy hair, and that his usually placid countenance assumed an indignant and semi-ferocious appearance. A little amused at this, I walked towards the log on which Susquesus was seated, having ended his meal, in silent thought.
“What news do you bring us from the red-coats, Trackless?” I asked, with as much of an air of indifference as I could assume. “Are they out in sufficient numbers to eat the French?”
“Look at leaves; count ‘em;” answered the Indian.
“Yes, I know they are in force; but, what are the red-skins about? Is the hatchet buried, among the Six Nations, that you are satisfied with being a runner, when scalps may be had near Ticonderoga?”
“Susquesus Onondago“—the red-man replied, laying a strong emphasis on the name of his tribe. “No Mohawk blood run in him. His people no dig up hatchet, this summer.”
“Why not, Trackless? You are allies of the Yengeese, and ought to give us your aid, when it is wanted.”
“Count leaves—count Yengeese. Too much for one army. No want Onondago.”
“That may be true, possibly, for we are certainly very strong. But, how is it with the woods—are they altogether clear of red-skins, in times as troublesome as these?”
Susquesus looked grave, but he made no answer. Still, he did not endeavour to avoid the keen look I fastened on his face, but sat composed, rigid, and gazing before him. Knowing the uselessness of attempting to get anything out of an Indian, when he was indisposed to be communicative, I thought it wisest to change the discourse. This I did by making a few general inquiries as to the state of the streams, all of which were answered, when I walked away.
Chapter XXII
“Fear not, till Birnam Wood
Shall come to Dunsinane.”
—Macbeth
