“Abner, I want you to go a message for me after breakfast.”
“Yes, mother. Is it to Four Corners?”
“No; you are to go to the Blands, with a basket for old Mrs Whiting.”
“Why, that’s in Canada, and they’re our enemies.”
“Our governments are at war, but we old neighbors are not.”
“But the Indian guard may catch me.”
“If they do, they’ll not harm a boy like you.”
“Yes, they would, mother. They’d scalp anything that’s Yankee, and I hate them and every Britisher. I don’t see why you want to do a good turn to those who’ve been trying these two years to cut our throats and burn our houses.”
“Abner!” exclaimed Mrs Smith reproachfully.
“I want to hit them every time, mother, and if I have got to go, you’ll let me take father’s rifle.”
“No, Abner; you’ll go as you are, and if the Indian guard fall in with you, their captain will let you go when you tell your errand. If congress want to fight king George, that’s not to say we are to hate and hurt those we have lived beside so long and who’ve done us many a kindness.”
This conversation took place in the log shanty of a first settler in northern New York in the fall of 1813. War was then in progress, and a few days before General Hampton had returned from his attempt to reach Montreal, and with his withdrawal to winter quarters the settlers along the frontier supposed hostilities were ended for the season. When war had been declared the settlers on the American side of the lines were in terror of being visited by the Indians, whom the British government had enrolled to watch the frontier, but as time proved their apprehensions groundless, they were little affected by the contest that was being waged, beyond having their intercourse with the settlers on the Canadian side restricted, and that intercourse had been close and frequent, for the difference in allegiance had not affected their friendship. In the bush distance goes for little, and though five miles apart, the Blands were Mrs Smith’s nearest neighbors to the north, and their relation had been of the warmest kind. Unable, owing to the presence of Hampton’s camp at Four Corners, to do their trading there, Mrs Smith knew that the Blands must be without groceries and even flour, and, at this, the first opportunity, she was eager to send them some little comforts to vary their coarse fare, especially for Mrs Whiting, the grandmother of the household, who was often bedridden from rheumatism.
The basket was ready for Abner by the time he had finished breakfast. His imagination had been fired by seeing the soldiers at fort Hickory and at Four Corners, and to carry the basket in the usual way was out of the question. Securing thin withe-ropes, made from the bark of the moosewood, he slung the basket on his shoulders like a knapsack, and catching up a cedar pole he grasped it as if it were a musket, and shouting to himself the order, “Eyes front; right foot forward; quick march!” off he set, fancying himself one of Colonel Purdy’s crack brigade. Mrs Smith as, from the door, she watched her boy depart on his errand, while she smiled at his wayward fancy, could not help feeling a thrill of pride in his lithe, active figure, giving promise of a handsome man. That he was shrewd and quick-witted, as well as tall and strong, for his years, she well knew.
The weather had been extremely wet for the season; the ground was soaked and the leaves had long ago been washed from all the trees except the beech. During the night the rain had ceased, and the morning, dull and hazy, gave promise of a dry day. Once out of his father’s clearance, Abner’s way lay through the bush. There was a foot-track that led to the Blands, but now it was so hidden by the litter of leaves that it was indiscernible. That did not signify. Born in the woods, they were so familiar that Abner could find his way in any direction he chose, with as much ease as the dwellers in cities traverse their intricacies of streets and lanes. As he threaded his way among the trees, the chatter of the chipmunk, the whirr of the partridge, and the tapping of a belated woodpecker were the only sounds that fell on his ear, and no sight more unusual than an occasional grey-squirrel or troop of deer. When he had crossed the line that divides Chateaugay from Hinchinbrook, and was fairly on Canadian territory, he became more circumspect, and his fancy changed. He was no longer the right-hand man of a file of soldiers, but a scout, sent into the enemy’s country to get information. Keeping under every cover that offered, looking furtively around before venturing to cross any open that came in his way, treading on the hardest ground he could find, and doubling on his track where the soil treacherously retained his footprints, he found playing at Abner the spy much more exciting than that of Abner the soldier. Suddenly a crackling sound arrested his footsteps. It was, he knew, no noise made by any denizen of the forest, and he turned towards whence it came. Soon he caught the faint odor of smoke, and then he knew there was a fire near—probably the camp-fire of the British guard. Prudence whispered to him to turn away and pass on; curiosity, to go and have a peep at the camp. He was only a boy of fourteen, and curiosity carried the day. Slowly he stole towards the point whence the crackling sound of blazing branches came, and so noiselessly that even the squirrels failed to start at his approach until he passed their perch. Now he could see the smoke, and next the glare of the embers. He thought he saw the figure of a man, but as, when he looked again, the shape was gone, he thought he had been mistaken. He paused to listen. There was no sound save the drumming of a partridge behind him. Redoubling his caution, he crawled towards the spot whence the smoke rose, and when he slowly lifted his head from behind a thicket, he was startled to find himself looking into a camp of the dreaded Indian guard, of whom he had so often heard but never seen. There they were, 21 in number, lying prostrate in sleep in a circle around the fire and the pale autumn sunshine streaming down upon them. Uncouth looking men they were, with daubs of paint on their faces that made them hideous. Beside each one lay his musket, and some even, in their sleep, grasped their hatchets, prepared, if surprised, for immediate combat. Their captain Abner recognized from his being white and wearing the sword and crimson sash of a British officer. With eager eye Abner scanned the unexpected scene, and when the first feeling of fear died away, he grew bold and thought of what he might have accomplished had his mother allowed him to take his father’s rifle with him. The exploits of Robert Rogers and Ethan Allen floated before his mind’s eye and he planned how, had he been armed, he might have shot the captain through the heart and have disappeared before any of the sleeping group knew what had happened. Satisfied with the sight, he moved to withdraw and resume his journey. At the first attempt to turn around, his arms were seized with a grasp of iron, and, looking up, he saw he was in the hands of an Indian, whose painted visage glared with ferocity. Appalled for a moment, Abner stood still, then he made a wrench to get away. It was in vain. Drawing the boy’s arms together, the Indian grasped them by the wrists with his left hand, and when the right hand was thus released he thrust it into the folds of his belt of wampum. Abner’s eyes followed the movement, and when the hand was withdrawn grasping a short, thick knife, which he recognized as the scalping-knife he had heard so much of, a paroxysm of terror smote him, and he gave a piercing shriek. With a diabolical grin, as if he enjoyed the boy’s terror, the Indian passed the knife before Abner’s eyes and tried its edge on his soft chubby cheek, then flourished it before plunging into his scalp. As he made the motion, a billet of wood came hurtling past, and striking the Indian on the head, he fell, dragging Abner down with him. He was lifted up by the captain, whom Abner had seen asleep a minute before, and as he passed his hand over him to make sure he was unhurt, he poured forth a torrent of angry words, in his own language, at the Indian, who gave no sign that the knockdown blow he had received had hurt him. As the captain led Abner into the circle of Indians, who had been awakened by his shriek, he told him he had been scolding his assailant for attempting to scalp him, and said in apology that he was a heathen Indian of the far west, a Blackfoot who had strayed to the Ottawa, and joined a band of the Iroquois. “I do not allow my men to be cruel; my orders be to watch the frontier to prevent invasion by your soldier, and not to hurt anybody.” Then he asked Abner who he was and why he had come nigh their camp, and was answered frankly.
“Ah, my leetle man,” said the captain, who spoke with a French accent, “if you tell me true you get away; but I’m afraid you carry letter,—despatch—eh!” Taking the basket from his back, the captain lifted out its contents, among which were half-a-dozen apples, then a luxury in the new settlement, where the few fruit trees planted had not begun to bear. An Indian snatched up one and took a bite, laughingly saying, “Yankee apple better nor Yankee bullet.” The other contents were of as innocent a description: a few little luxuries that might tempt an invalid, a small bag of flour, and a bottle of liniment. The captain, satisfied there was no letter in the basket, carefully replaced its contents, and then examined Abner’s clothing, making him even take off his shoes. While thus engaged an Indian slouched up beside the captain and, throwing down his musket, began to speak to him, and Abner listened to the guttural sounds with awe.
“Dis man,” said the captain, “tell me he see you leave clearance and follow you. He say, when you come to Canada side you act as ’fraid, hide behind bush, and walk ve-ray fooney. Why you no want to be seen?”
Abner blushed at this description of his enacting the role of Indian scout and perceived how his conduct could be misconstrued. He remembered, also, his mother’s repeated injunction that truth is better under any circumstances, and, with a shamed smile on his face, he told what he was doing. The captain grinned as he listened and patting Abner on the back said: “I know; boy once myself and now fadder of four; you play one leetle game of Indian spy, not tinking real Indian watch you. You one good, honest-faced boy. Pity you Yankee.”
The Indian who had tracked him, smiled as the captain spoke, showing he understood English, and, like all his race, enjoyed banter. “You smell smoke, eh?” he said, “hold up nose and go on. Then you hear partridge drum (here he imitated the sound) me partridge and signal to Joe; Joe steal up behind, catch arms, pull out knife, you—squeal,” and here, as if overcome by the ludicrousness of the scene, the Indian grinned from ear to ear without emitting a single sound of laughter, and poked Abner in the side.
“You make big mistake tink you come to Indian camp without we know,” remarked the captain, “when we sleep, sentinel all round like fox.” Changing the subject, the captain tried to get from Abner what he knew of the movements and whereabouts of the American army, particularly of the number still in camp at Four Corners, which Abner admitted he had visited the day before. It was without avail. The boy realized the information he would give might be used against his countrymen, and he answered evasively. “Ah, well,” exclaimed the captain, “it no matter; we’ve our spies in your camp so well as in de bush.”
The Indians were now busily preparing breakfast, and Abner watched them with curious eyes as they placed potatoes and pieces of pork to cook upon the hot embers, while a copper-kettle with tea was slung on a crooked stick. Their duties required them to be on the patrol along the frontier during the night, which accounted for their sleeping so late.
“Vell,” said the captain, “what you tink of dese Indian? Yankee able to catch ’em? Eh? You tell, when you get home, what great fellow Indians be. Now you may go, and give Mrs Bland de compliment of Captain de Versailles and say he will do her de honor of taking supper with her.”
Thus permitted to resume his journey, Abner struck into the bush, and in half an hour had reached the house of the Blands. He was hailed with an uproarious welcome from every member of the large household, for there was the delight not only of resuming long-suspended friendly intercourse, but the proof in his appearance that the warfare waged between the two governments had not lessened the goodwill of their neighbors. Unpacking the basket, it was found to contain a little of everything they had been so long deprived from being shut out from the American stores. On the cork being drawn from the bottle of liniment, granny declared that the very smell had done her rheumatics good. As the contents of the basket lay spread on the table, a sudden thought seemed to strike Mrs Bland, which she communicated in a whisper to her husband. There was a quiet consultation, and then she addressed Abner.
“We have something strange to tell you, and mum’s the word. Night before last, when we were asleep, a knock came to the door and then it was pushed open. Father rose, stirred the fire, and got a light, when we saw it was an American soldier. He was drenched to the skin, for it was pouring rain, and, oh, what a pale, thin ghost he looked! He crept up to the fire and sank in a heap beside it, muttering, ‘Thank God.’ I saw he was perishing, and got some hot drink for him, and after a while he told his story. He had been with Hampton’s army in the battle, where he had received a flesh wound in the side, and when Purdy’s brigade fell back he was unable to keep up with them, got separated from his company, and, in the dark, lost his way. Next morning he tried to find the trail of the army, but failed, and then, guided by the sun, struck south, knowing he would in time reach the States. Too weak to carry them, he threw away his musket and ammunition, and crawled, rather than walked. When the last biscuit in his haversack was eaten, he had to trust to beech and butter nuts, though he was not hungry, for his wound fevered him. Often he lay down, thinking he would never rise again, but he was young and strong, and when he revived a little he pushed on, until, to his great joy, he struck our clearing. He thought he was in the States, and when we told him our house was on the Canada side he was dreadful afraid we would give him up, and he would be sent to Montreal as a prisoner. We soon eased him on that score; our big trouble was to hide him from the Indian guard until we could get him sent across the lines.”
“Yes, mother,” interrupted one of her sons, “they came to our house the next day, and are close by yet.” Abner shivered.
“Well,” resumed Mrs Bland, “I made the poor Yank take off his wet clothes and lie down in our warm bed. I dressed his wound for the first time, and it was raw and nasty, I can tell you, and then he fell asleep like a baby, poor fellow. I cleaned and set his clothes to dry, and as I sat mending them next morning father and I consulted. To keep him in the house was to give him up to the Indians, and he was too weak to travel farther. Where to hide him until he was able to leave bothered us, when, all of a sudden, father thought of the big platform that stands near the spring in the bush, two acres back, which the Indians raised last year for still hunting. It was late in the day when he awoke, and he found himself weak as water but the fever had left him. We told him what we intended, and, after he had eaten something, father and the boys carried him to the platform, rolled him in a blanket and covered him with elm bark and cedar brush. We have taken him victuals after dark, and last night, seeing it was wet, we fetched him over and gave him a night’s rest in bed. He eats little, for his stomach is turned against our common food, and he’ll be glad of what your mother has sent. Now, Ab, can’t you think of some plan to get this poor fellow across the lines?”
He could not think of any, for the woods were full of Indians, but he would like to visit the wounded soldier. Preparing as tasty a repast as she could out of the victuals sent by Mrs Smith, Abner and Mrs Bland started for his place of concealment. As is their custom, the Indians had raised the platform in a thicket, which commanded a runway, and was therefore well concealed, and, what was of equal consequence at that season, sheltered from the wind. On coming beneath it, Mrs Bland spoke, when there was a movement above, and a face, so ashy pale and wasted that Abner felt a creeping feeling pass over him, peered from beyond the edge. “Here’s a boy from Yankeetown and a dinner cooked from the provisions he has brought.”
“He’s welcome,” faintly whispered the soldier. “I wish I could go back with him.”
Taking the basket in one hand, Abner climbed up to the platform with the agility of a squirrel, and helped the soldier to raise himself and arrange the food. When he saw the wheaten bread, he said it put him in mind of home, and he fell to and made the best meal he had partaken of since the fatal day on the Chateaugay. His strength returned with the grateful food and he asked Abner many questions, what Hampton had done after the battle, where he was now, were many killed, did the British follow him up, and were there many Indians in the woods. When he heard of Abner’s encountering the Indians that morning, he shuddered, and Abner could not help thinking of what his fate would be did one of them ferret out his retreat, a reflection that increased his desire to save him. Leaving the soldier in a cheerful and hopeful mood, he slipped back to the Blands, puzzling his head to devise some plan of rescuing his countryman.
After dinner, which consisted of corn boiled in milk, and potatoes with fried venison, the Bland boys proposed to go partridge shooting, and Abner agreed, as he was in no hurry to return home. So off they went. In beating the woods, a coon was started, and it supplied the idea Abner had been seeking for. Before they returned home he had worked it out and determined to submit it to Mrs Bland. On approaching the door they heard peals of laughter, when one of the boys remarked, “The captain has come; he’s a jolly one with the girls,” and on entering, they found that personage entertaining the family in his liveliest style. Abner bit his lip and saw he must bide his time. Supper is an early meal in the backwoods, and after enjoying it to the full, and diverting and flattering each of the household, Captain Versailles, with many apologies for duty requiring him to leave such delightful company, left to return to his Indians. No sooner had he gone, than Abner asked abruptly, “These moonlight nights don’t you go coon-hunting?”
“Don’t we, Ab,” answered one of the boys, “think you’d say so if you saw the skins nailed on the barn-door.”
“Well, then, I’ve a plan to get the soldier away with me,” which he proceeded to lay before them. Briefly it was, that the boys should go with their guns a mile or so east and close to the boundary-line, when they would begin firing and shouting. The Indians, thinking it was an attack from Fort Hickory, would hurry to meet the invaders, leaving the western part of the frontier unguarded, and let Abner slip across with the soldier.
“It’s feasible,” said Mr Bland, “the trouble is the poor fellow isn’t able to walk a rod, let alone five miles.”
“He’ll die from cold if left out longer,” remarked his wife; “we must run some risk. He might be able to keep on the back of the old white mare.”
“That’s so,” answered her husband, “we’ll try Ab’s plan.”
As no time was to be lost, it being essential to make the diversion before the Indians were detailed by Captain Versailles to their posts for the night, the boys caught up their guns and left, while Abner and Mr Bland slipped over to the hiding-place of the soldier, told him what was intended, and helped him down from his perch. The prospect of speedy escape gave him unwonted strength, and leaning on his friends he managed to walk to the house, where Mrs Bland, after dressing his wound, insisted on washing his face and tidying him up. “For sure,” she said, “you’re going home to your friends, and you mustn’t give Canada a bad name.”
“That I never will,” murmured the grateful soldier, “God has anointed the hearts of both peoples with the same oil of kindness, and it’s only the politicians and big men on both sides that make trouble between us.”
The evening was calm and mild for the season, and Mr Bland sat listening by the open door. Presently, there burst from a remote corner of the woods, a sharp volley, followed by such shouts and cries as would lead the listener to fancy a fierce fight was in progress. “There they are!” exclaimed Mr Bland, while the shots and uproar continued to increase, “let ’em keep that up for five minutes, and there won’t be an Indian within earshot who won’t be running to the spot.”
The noise did continue that long and longer too, while, with skilful imitation, it subsided and increased, and passed from one part of the woods to another, the cheers of soldiers mingling with equally good imitations of Indian yells, giving the impression of a running fight between a detachment of the American garrison and the Indian guard. When Mr Bland considered all the Indians had left for the neighborhood of the supposed fight, the old mare was brought to the door, which the soldier was helped to mount, and Abner, grasping the bridle, led the way. By this time the moon was high enough to be pouring down its rays through the tree-tops, and though its light was useful in showing him how to avoid obstacles and to go much faster than they otherwise could have done, Abner would have dispensed with it for fear of its revealing their presence to the Indians. His fear was groundless. His device was a complete success. Not an Indian was met, the woods were traversed in safety, and Abner exulted in the thought how he had tricked the Indians, and almost laughed right out when he pictured to himself their disgust, on reaching the scene of the supposed fight, to find it to be only a coon-hunt. If they had trapped him in the morning, he had outwitted them in the evening. When the light of his father’s house was discerned, Abner relieved his feelings by a great shout of exultation, that drew his parents to the door.
“Well, Abner, you see the Indians did not catch you?”
“Didn’t they mother! I feel the clutch of one of ’em at my scalp yet. Won’t you help the stranger down, father? He is a soldier and wounded.”
“Wounded! Poor critter, I must get the bed ready,” and Mrs Smith darted indoors.
Stiff and sore from the exertion and cold, the poor soldier was like to fall when they helped him off the mare, and, gently, father and son carried him to the bed.
“Poor man, ain’t he tuckered out!” exclaimed Mrs Smith, as she approached him when his head had been laid on the pillow. Shading the candle she glanced at him, started, looked again, and crying out, “Blessed if it ben’t my own brother Bill from Varmont!” she fell on his neck in a paroxysm of hysterical sobs. And so it turned out to be. He had been among those last drafted to reinforce Hampton, and had been unconscious that his sister lived so near the camp at Four Corners. Abner was the hero of the night when the soldier told how he had been the means of saving him. “No,” said the lad modestly, “it was mother’s sending me against my will to the Blands that saved you.”
“That’s so, Abner, and you never forget it, that blood is thicker than water, and in doing a kind deed to those you considered an enemy we were serving ourselves.”