Chapter II: Front Matter (2)

I set out upon my summer ramble, attracted by the feelings I have mentioned, to visit scenes of so much traditionary interest; and being unacquainted with the topography of the adjacent country, I sought out one of its oldest settlers in the hope of obtaining a guide, and some information respecting the most remarkable relics of the past. I was so fortunate as to fall in with a real old forester, one who loved nature in her wildness, who had trod her labyrinths of shade ere the woodman’s axe was heard clearing the way for rising villages and busy factories. I found him animated with antiquarian zeal, with a memory filled with stories of by-gone days, and a spirit of poetic fervor, which could re-people every spot with living images of the wild beings who had there fulfilled their mysterious destiny. He readily offered to be my guide in Indian antiquities, and we set out on our pilgrimage; Oliver Oldham (thus was my cicerone called) beguiling the way, now with a story, now with a song of ancient time, suggested by this well-remembered pass, that over-hanging rock, or steep waterfall. All was animated, all interesting, on the tongue of this old narrator. He carried me back to the days when the Indians and the white settlers were united in bonds of amity and love; when the unsuspecting red man showed no dispositions but those of the most friendly and confiding nature, towards the race before which he was so soon to disappear, and from which he was fated to receive such injuries. He retraced the history of aggression, and related several incidents of harrowing barbarity, in which the power of our race was perverted to oppress and finally to crush our ancient friends and allies. My mind retaining some historical recollection of the massacre of the Conestogo Indians by the white inhabitants of Pextang, I requested my companion to proceed towards the site of that ancient settlement. As we advanced, we saw nothing to remind us of the first masters of the soil, save the magnificent features of nature, still bearing the appropriate epithets of their language. The mighty voice of the Susquehanna still roared through its breakers, and the dark form of the Black Warrior lifted itself on high. Having arrived at the supposed spot of the cruel massacre, Oliver gave me a short history of the war-like and generous tribe who once inhabited the extensive and flourishing settlement, lying between the Susquehanna and Conestogo creek. Among the rocks and fastnesses to which it is said the Indians fled for refuge in the general destruction of their tribe, he particularised one, called the “Rock of Sacrifice,” with which, he remarked, there was a singular tradition connected; and another story of still deeper interest, with a bend in the river just below it, which he pointed out as the “Kidnapper’s Cove;” thus designated from a remarkable circumstance which once happened there. “But,” said he, “as both places are inseparably connected in my own mind, I will begin with the ‘Rock of Sacrifice,’ and tell you what the Indian legends relate of both.”

The tradition is, that only six warriors escaped the murder of their people; and not wishing to survive the fall of their nation, sacrificed themselves on this spot to the god of vengeance, believing they should be permitted in the land of spirits to behold the day of just retribution on their murderers. One of these chiefs was known by the appellation of the “Spread Eagle,” from his power and majesty. He was a famous chief; his word in council, and his arm in war, were alike irresistible. He was the friend and ally of the whites. He said, “they are wise, they will teach us their arts, there is room enough for us both, let them fell the trees and till the soil, the wilderness stretches to the great waters, our young men can follow the chase, and our old ones learn to grow a great nation. Our white brethren must dwell among us.” His counsel was followed, and mutual amity established between the two races. At length the rapacious thirst for gain fomented discord, and the Indians were assailed and murdered in cold blood. The Spread Eagle, by his wonderfully muscular strength, fought through the enemy, bearing two children (the only remaining members of his family) on his shoulders. He fled to the habitation of Colonel Carlisle, who in the general defection had maintained the cause of the persecuted Indians. His confidence in this tried friend, while all around was treachery and bloodshed, wavered not; and he rushed through the infuriated crowd to the covert of his protection. Exhausted by exertion and mental anguish, he had scarcely reached the door, when he beheld his murderers in close pursuit. Darting forward with a last effort, he threw his children at the feet of Carlisle, exclaiming, “is there mercy, is there faith, in the heart of one white man?” “Fear not,” replied the voice of his protector, “I will defend you from every assault of your enemies.” The Indian’s emotion was overwhelming. He vented not in words the deep feelings with which his heart was torn, but his large chest heaved with the inward struggle. After a few moments he became tranquil, and uttered his determination in a few brief words—“Carlisle, my people are gone—their blood dyes the ground—the smoke of their wigwams darkens the sky—I will not stay to see their ashes scattered by the wind—I will join my brothers in the spirit-land—see you yonder rock? It points upwards. To night its blaze will tell that the last Conestogo chiefs have gone to call down vengeance on their murderers. The Great Spirit drinks the blood of the brave, but he calls not for the death of the young, they must live to do deeds of glory. Carlisle, your children have sported with mine on the brink of the roaring stream—let them roam together until ten winters have stripped the leaves off the trees: then, my children, mind the course of the sun—he rises in the east, but he goes down in the west—follow his path until you find the home of the red man. Arrowfoot and Caraola, my children, remember the words of your father. Make not your home with the white man—get far away from him, but shed not his blood—you have eaten of his bread, and slept by his fire: die sooner {742} than do him harm, lest the frown of the Great Spirit darken your souls, but forget not he has shed the blood of your people, and broken the faith of his promise.” He rose, and unloosing his wampum belt, presented it to Carlisle, which he received as the pledge of faith and friendship. The next moment the “Spread Eagle” was gone. As soon as it was dark, Colonel Carlisle looked towards the beacon rock. Its fires were just kindling, but soon six figures were seen within the circle of their ravages. They stood, like the rocks around, unmoved and unterrified by the fury of the conflagration. He watched, until the fiery billows swept over the self-devoted victims. Arrowfoot and Caraola were also spectators of the scene. Their sympathies, unlike those of the little group around, were not expressed in tears of grief, or shrieks of terror. In silent and fixed attention they stood with their backs against a tree, until the last flickering spark was gone. Then each took the hand of the other, and pointing to the extinguished pile, promised to obey their father’s command.

Arrowfoot and Caraola were immediately taken as inmates into Colonel Carlisle’s family, and the natural shyness and suspicion of the Indian character, dispelled by the affectionate attention bestowed on them by every member of the household.

Colonel Carlisle had been very unfortunate in his domestic ties. Death had successively swept to the grave six children; and last of all his beloved wife, who sunk under the repeated strokes of family affliction. Eva and Eldred were now the melancholy father’s only ties to existence. She was the oldest. Eleven summers had fanned the auburn ringlets on her snowy brow, and health and joy sparkled on her radiant cheek. But little Eldred, though nine years old, was feeble and infantine; claiming a double share of his father’s care and tenderness. The Indian children soon became the favorite and happy companions of Carlisle’s own. They bounded with them through the wild woods of the Susquehanna, Caraola bearing Eldred on her shoulder as lightly as a bird skipped over the rocks; and Arrowfoot teaching the nimble foot of Eva where to rest in climbing the steep precipice. His dexterity in the use of the bow was an unceasing source of amusement: and the young foresters often spent the day pursuing the chase, and at night brought home a fawn, the trophy of Arrowfoot’s skill.

Such was the childhood of Eva and Eldred—passed amidst the magnificence of nature, with two of her untutored children to teach them how to love and commune with her in the thundering waterfall, the deep voice of the coming storm, or the whispers of the evening wind—each was alike delightful, because each was alike expressive of her beauty or her grandeur. The disposition of Arrowfoot was naturally contemplative—that of Caraola, tender and romantic. While he, in thoughtful mood, watched the swift current of the mighty river, journeying to meet its kindred fountains in the deep, and imagined himself also a traveller in ceaseless step in pursuit of an unknown destiny, she would sit on the beetling rock, overhung by the dark hemlock, and chant the funeral dirge of her tribe, and, pointing to the Indian mound, describe to her little group of wrapt listeners, the mysterious rites of interment, and the plentiful supplies which are left with the dead, to sustain them till they reach the spirit-land. Her soul seemed to live in the memories of the past, associating with the majestic scenery around her recollections of the faded glory of her people.

Colonel Carlisle thought it his duty to instruct these young orphans in some of the most useful branches of education; but he soon found that their spirits could not be tamed down to con over the dull elements of the white man’s language. They loved better to climb some rocky steep in search of the young eaglet, or follow the bounding deer into the depths of the near forest. It was only when the young Eva became his teacher, that Arrowfoot listened to the page of instruction, and even then his eye would stray from the lesson, to the bright countenance that hung over it, in which his musing fancy beheld all it could picture of beauty and happiness. Believe not those who say the Indian’s heart is only susceptible of the fierce emotions. Love, in all its strength and purity, often lies hidden in the deep recesses of his nature, prompting him to deeds of high daring and self-sacrifice, which the energies and feelings of civilized life, dissipated upon a thousand objects, are too weak to achieve. Arrowfoot looked on young Eva’s face of sunshine, and felt the pride and sternness of his soul melt before it. At first he was happy, for it beamed on him in his lonely walks, and gladdened the darkest wood path. But a change came over him, when he attempted to analyze the feelings that soon warred within his bosom. He became moody and sad, for he knew the vision he had so long dwelt on would never pass away from his soul, and he remembered the promise that bound him. He held it sacred, for it was made to the parent and the chief; but darkness fell upon his soul, and no star lighted the dim and dreary destiny to which he was hastening. The struggle was however fearful between the dignity and firmness of the Indian character, and the softer but still powerful feelings that are called forth in men of every tribe and language, by the fascinations of beauty, and the smiles of artless affection. One day, when Eva was trying to awaken his interest in the records of history, he exclaimed, turning on her a countenance of grief and wounded pride, “Does Eva wish Arrowfoot to forget the misfortunes of his race? Then tell him not of the triumphs, the glories of other nations. Once the Indian could boast of the valor of his warriors, and the number of his captives, but now he is driven from his war-paths, and his hunting grounds. He is robbed of his rights; and his injuries swell the page of your nations triumphs. If he receives justice, it is because the oppressor grows weary of trampling on the fallen. If he receives kindness, he is base enough to forget the wrongs of his people. But Eva, my father’s death-song sounds in my ears. His voice calls to me from the spirit-land, and bids me break the spell that has bound me even near the grave of my nation. He says the daughter of the white man has smiled on me, and the coil of the serpent is around my heart. Oh, start not! The bright sun warms into life the poison hemlock, and the healing balsam. But I must go. It is the hand of destiny that shapes our lot; we may war against it, but we cannot control it.”

The spring of the young Indian’s activity seemed gone. He no longer took delight in the difficult and perilous adventure. He wandered amid the solitude of nature, only to indulge the musings of a sensitive and unhappy mind.

{743} Colonel Carlisle marked, with deep interest, the change which had come over the boy. He knew too well the silent, dignified fortitude of the Indian, to make any direct inquiry as to the cause of his sadness. His sympathy was only shown in redoubled acts of kindness, which availed nothing but to make Arrowfoot throw a deeper covering of reserve over his feelings, and avoid, as much as possible, the society of those he loved best. Months passed away, and still there was on his countenance, “the settled shadow of an inward strife.” The cause was a mystery to all, but it acted as a check upon the full tide of joyful existence, which animated Eva and Eldred.

The lapse of two years wrote its changes on the brows of all that household. In Eva, the lovely child expanded into the fair and beautiful proportions of womanhood. Eldred’s pale cheek was exchanged for the ruddy glow of health and exercise, and his frame became more vigorous as he grew old enough to share the mountain sports of the young Indian, who, now tall and athletic, displayed all the physical powers of his race. His constitutional fortitude, strengthened by the habits of reflection acquired in civilized life, enabled him to bear his fate with great endurance; and he looked on the object of his affections with the fixed and melancholy gaze, which some lovely wanderer might cast towards the pure star, that shone bright and far, above him. He sought not to attain her; he made no effort even to gain her sympathy: but his way was not altogether so dark as if the beam had been withdrawn.

Colonel Carlisle had resided in Pennsylvania from early manhood: one sister shared with him the valuable funded property left by their father, a wealthy Bristol merchant; but a large proportion of the estate he had realized, was vested in land, which, according to the custom of the country, only descended in the male line. The feeble state of Eldred’s health through infancy and childhood, led many to anticipate the time when these large estates would pass from Colonel Carlisle’s family, to that of his sister; who, married to an East Indian, was the mother of a wild and roving boy. Communication was tardy and uncertain in those days; for the hidden powers of earth, air and water, had not then been called into action, by the commanding energies of man; and Colonel Carlisle having united his fortune with the early adventurers in the colonies, while animated by the ardor of youth, soon felt that the ties which bound him to the home of his childhood, were feeble, compared with those man frames for himself in maturer years.

He was sitting one evening, revolving in his mind some of the pleasant memories of days long past, and scenes in which that sister had been always at his side, when a purpose he had formed, of writing forthwith to inquire after her welfare, and inform her of the health and happiness of his own domestic circle, was frustrated by the arrival of tidings from New York, that an officer in the British Navy, the son of his sister Mrs. Fitzgerald, had just arrived in port, and would come down to visit him in a few days. The heart of the affectionate old man throbbed with joy at the prospect of embracing his young relative. “He is a noble fellow I doubt not,” said he to his daughter. “A little wild in his youth, I have heard that his strange adventures gave my sister much pain, but young men will be thoughtless, and women’s fears often outrun discretion, you know, my little Eva.” “Yes,” he continued to himself, as she went dancing on, to spread the joyful news of the arrival of a gay young visitor, through the house, “the boldest and finest spirits often commit extravagancies, before education and experience give them the right bent, ‘the upward and onward course.’ Poor fellow! he has had little of that best instruction, a father’s high and pure example. Fitzgerald is an honest man, as the world goes, but I doubt if he could teach his son any thing better than to scrape together ingots. But half the blood in his veins is _Carlisle_, and that could not flow on in the same current with any thing mean or dishonorable. Besides, he wears his majesty’s uniform; so, as his father would say, _the balance_ is in favor of his being a brave man and a true.”

The expected guest at length came, and was welcomed by Colonel Carlisle with honest warmth. As he surveyed the noble figure of his nephew, in the imposing costume of the British navy, he felt assured that all his hopes for him were realized; and was proud of the relationship between them. Eva and Eldred with beating hearts gave a timid welcome to their dashing kinsman, but were not perfectly at ease until, with the frankness of a sailor, he inquired if they believed him to be “the old man of the sea,” told of in children’s story books? “Ah,” he said, taking Eva by the hand, “I have dreamed of your blue eyes and sunny curls, but I never _even dreamed_ that you would not be glad to see your own cousin Julian. You will not confess it, but I hope this warm hand and mantling cheek, tell another tale.” Then turning to Eldred, he exclaimed, “Is this the little fellow I have often heard my mother talk of, who was’nt quite large enough to be elected king of the fairies? Why here he is a sturdy boy, who could heave the anchor of my schooner.” Then the young Indians were introduced, and a few particulars added to what Julian already knew of their history. Caraola was struck with the glitter of the young officer, but Arrowfoot looked coldly on him, and soon turned away. Between the visitor and the stern Indian there existed, from the first, a sort of repulsion, such as we see between substances of the most opposite nature. It was attributed by those around them, to the difference of nature and habit, which had brought all the feelings and mental qualities of the sailor to the surface, and buried those of Arrowfoot in impenetrable reserve. This assumed the rigidity of marked dislike towards the stranger, who evidently felt uneasy at “the keen encounter” of his dark eye. The Indian was often reproached by the open-hearted company, for avoiding their society, and taking part in none of their plans of amusement: but as he gave no reason, his coldness was attributed to some trivial prejudice, or intuitive dislike. This was a check upon the hilarity of the young party: for Julian was the spring of all their gaiety. Now, gathered around him, they hung with breathless interest upon the fascinating adventures of the sailor’s life; now, seated in the pleasure boat, they skimmed the clear waves of the Susquehanna, he chanting some merry or sentimental air, and keeping time with the graceful dip of his oar. The person of the young officer never appeared to so much advantage as when borne on the surface of his own element; his spirits seemed to acquire an elasticity which gave grace to every motion, while {744} his full, black eyes sparkled through the thick curls that floated in the evening breeze. Arrowroot never failed to join these excursions; though apparently unobservant of what was passing, he sat silent and apart. Julian was evidently incommoded by his presence, and sometimes seemed to shrink from his searching eye. What could there be about the gay visitant to awaken the suspicion or the hatred of the Indian! It could not be jealousy. The young foreigner had disclaimed all pretensions to the hand of his fair cousin, by urging her, with the freedom and affection of a brother, to accept the addresses of a youthful admirer in the neighborhood. Indeed, Eldred appeared Julian’s favorite, from the deep interest he took in all the boy’s amusements, and the fatigue and self-denial he would undergo to promote his pleasure. With all the zest of fifteen, he hunted, sailed or angled as suited the whim of Eldred; and declared he would joyfully exchange the deck of his schooner, for the hunting grounds of the Susquehanna. He had so completely won the boy’s heart, that Eldred talked boldly of forsaking his books and going abroad with Fitzgerald. The proposition was actually made to Colonel Carlisle, who, at first, treated it as a jest; but when he perceived that his nephew was serious in urging the thing, and that he had gained Eldred’s hearty assent, he firmly but affectionately refused to suffer his son to go beyond parental restraint at his early age. Eldred was disappointed, but with the gentleness which marked his disposition, cheerfully submitted to his father’s wishes; but Julian was not only disturbed, but displeased. This was the first time he had exhibited any thing of a sensitive or suspicious nature. He asked if his uncle had not confidence in the affection he had evinced for Eldred, or in the promises he had made to guard him from all evil? His feelings were only calmed by new assurances on the part of Colonel Carlisle, that his confidence in the regard of his nephew was greatly heightened by this last expression of it.

The day following, Julian, with a melancholy countenance, informed Colonel Carlisle, that he had received orders to leave port in less than a week, and of course he must reach his vessel in time to make the necessary arrangements; two or three days more were all he could spend with the beloved relatives to whom his heart was doubly bound by the ties of kindred and affection. These tidings spread gloom over every face but Arrowfoot’s. With a penetrating glance, he sought to read the secret purposes of the stranger, whose words he heeded not. Julian turned from the inquisitive look; and, with averted eyes, remarked to Colonel Carlisle, that business called him immediately to the neighboring town; but as he should only be detained a few hours, he hoped to return in time to take a last sail with the little party on the noble river, which would ever dwell in his memory, the mirror of many past joys.

But I see you are curious to know whether the young Eva was proof against the attractions of the gallant officer? Did her guileless heart receive no arrow from the vagrant Cupid, who is so apt to make one in water excursions and rambles in search of the picturesque; and who, often an unbidden guest, forces himself into pleasant country parties, to disturb their harmony and mar all their pastimes. She remained “fancy free;” for Julian Fitzgerald deigned not to borrow from the quiver of the mischievous boy, and Eva’s was not a love to be bestowed, unsought. She was a being, too, of deep affections: and though her cousin was handsome, brave, full of recitals of wild and varied interest, and amusing sketches of life and manners, which she knew only through books, his character was not one to excite her enthusiasm. It seemed to her romantic spirit, deficient in the lofty qualities which could alone call forth the enduring love of a refined, feeling woman; though she admitted that it must be a very pleasant world where the men were all as gay, and agreeable, and courteous as he. With his knowledge of the human heart, he might have found it no very difficult matter to deceive his cousin Eva’s penetration, had his pride or vanity, or any of the thousand springs of action by which men are actuated, been put in motion: but he existed for more stirring scenes; though, now like a bird pursuing its mysterious way from one far land to another, he paused to rest for awhile amid song and sunshine.

The hours of Fitzgerald’s absence were spent by the family in preparing mementos of regard, for him to take to their mutual friends in England. He returned before Eva had completed her package; and, as if to drive away care, rallied her on the Quaker taste of her presents. But though he assumed gaiety, he was restless and uneasy, and sometimes fell into fits of abstraction, from which he would suddenly start, and attribute his unusual sadness to the prospect of parting so soon from his only friends in America. Eldred hung on him, persuading him with artless and disinterested affection to renounce his wandering life, and share with him the large domains that would be his in a few years. But the young officer smiling at the boy’s simplicity, replied that he would “owe fortune only to his own arm, and to the favoring gale.”

The evening came on, and the little party embarked on the bright river. The breeze was fresh, dimpling it with smiles, and soft and fleecy clouds flitted over them, on their way to form a canopy of splendor the retiring monarch of day. The scene seemed to revive the spirits of Julian, and he resumed his animated tone, as he called over the roll for the excursion. “Where is our pilot Arrowfoot?” said Eva, looking round. “Oh, the Indian boy,” replied Julian, “I did not perceive he was missing. But you will not deny me the pleasure of commanding your little bark this last cruise we shall make together? I am sure I shall steer as gallantly as he, and as safely too.” “No doubt of it, dear cousin,” answered Eva, “but there is something singular in his leaving his post, without giving us any reason for it.” “I thought,” said Eldred, “he had gone with you, Julian. I hav’nt seen him since your return.” “No, indeed,” replied the young officer, “I believe he has no desire for my companionship. These Indians are strange beings; I would as soon think of taming the mountain eagle as of civilizing them.” “Slacken sail,” cried Eldred, “if I mistake not, that speck on the waters is Arrowfoot’s bark canoe. Yes, I know the dash of his paddle; he is making towards us with all his strength.” “What can the boy have been after?” remarked Fitzgerald, in rather an anxious tone: but the next moment the Indian came alongside, and bounded into the boat, leaving his own light canoe to drift down the current.

“I thought,” said Eldred joyfully, “that our old pilot {745} would not desert us altogether. But where have you been? Out of breath, and as pale as a corpse! Have you been fighting with a wolf, or capsized by the water-fiend?” “You will not speak,” exclaimed Eva, as he turned silently away, and fixed his eyes on the dark cove they were nearing; “can you not tell us whether the spirit who haunts yon depths will be propitious, for we are going to invade his realms?” “You have nothing to fear from the water-spirit,” replied Arrowfoot, “but why do you not sail up the river as you have always done before?” “Because Julian wishes to see the cove,” said Eva gaily; “and with you at the helm we fear nothing.” “Trust not to that,” replied he, in a low tone, “I would guard you from danger with my life, but—I would we were sailing up the stream,” he continued with increased anxiety. “What can you mean, Arrowfoot?” cried the now alarmed girl, but immediately recovering her natural buoyancy of spirit, she rallied him on his superstition. “Have you seen a raven hovering over us, or does the moon dip her horn?” she laughingly inquired. “Believe not the omen, but let us follow these merry waves that go dancing by us, to ‘the cave of their slumbers,’ and hear the wild song of the water-spirit soothing them to rest under yon rude canopy of rock.” Fitzgerald now approached. “I do not like to see my cousin’s bright countenance wearing this shadow? What gloomy forebodings are these that disturb you, Eva?” “I wish,” answered she, “that we had taken the usual course, for Arrowfoot thinks we are not quite safe in venturing into the cove this evening. Night is coming on, and perhaps we may strike upon some hidden rock.” “Never fear,” rejoined he, “I am an old cruiser, who has doubled Cape Horn and been baptized by Neptune. I want to show you how we steer through dangers in real nautical style. This young Indian,” he continued in a lower tone, “knows nothing about it.” “More perhaps than you think he does,” said Arrowfoot, sternly; for the almost whispered accents had reached his acute ear. Julian turned away apparently disconcerted, but in a few moments was himself again, and that he might obliterate every uneasy feeling from the breasts of the little party, played off Jack-tar for their entertainment with so much odd singularity and humor, that all, save the lone Indian, entered into the spirit of his drollery, and forgot every thing but the fantastic drama before them. He stood apart, gazing first on the dark masses of rock which overhung the river, then down its broad and deep solitudes of water, on which no skiff or fishing boat was visible. They were now entering the unfrequented cove. Seldom was it that even the canoe of the wild Indian disturbed the stillness of this spot. How strange was it then to see a small boat rise as it were out of the waters, and emerge from the shadow of the rocks within a few hundred yards of them. Arrowfoot, whose wary ear had heard the dash of oars before it was visible, stood with straining eye fixed upon it as it rapidly approached them. “I’ll declare, the water-spirit you were talking of,” said Fitzgerald, “has taken the form of a fishing boat, and Arrowfoot is going to answer his demand why we presume to come into his presence. But let me speak him as we do a ship at sea, and lo! the charm will dissolve, and the whole affair turn out to be nothing more than a trader going down stream.” In a moment he took out an instrument something like a bugle, but of a peculiar tone, and blew a few notes, which were answered by another of the same kind, and an attempt on the part of the trader to overhaul them. “I told you,” said Julian, “it was no water-witch. See she wishes to give us a friendly salute, and learn where we are bound.” Eva’s looks were directed first to her cousin and then to the Indian, but for whose look of alarm and defiance she would have enjoyed the adventure. The boat came nearer, and yet seemed steered by invisible hands, for no one could be seen beneath the awning which was raised at one end of it. “What lazy hulks,” exclaimed Fitzgerald, “to let their boat float on with the current, while they lie dozing there. I’ll pipe them again, and if they dont answer more gaily I’ll board them straightway.” He raised his bugle just as they were in the act of passing, and sounded a note, which was replied to by two figures masked and muffled in short cloaks, springing on the side of their little bark. “Good God! who are you? what is your purpose?” cried he, in a tone of consternation. “Villains! Murderers!” shouted Arrowfoot, straining the terrified Eldred close to his bosom. The ruffians rushed upon him, and the cry of despair he uttered when he found he could not retain his hold upon the boy, revealed their success. The struggle had been momentary. The Indian was shaken off into the water, by men whose nerve had been strengthened by many a scene of blood and strife; and the child he had so vainly striven to defend was heaved into the boat of the strangers. One wild shriek pierced the silence of the cove and all was still, while the pirates pushed silently down the stream. Eva sunk lifeless on the bosom of Caraola, who seemed stunned by the events which had just occurred, but soon her mournful wail told her utter hopelessness. Julian Fitzgerald stood silent and unmoved. Where was his vaunted courage, which had made no effort to rescue a helpless boy? “Caraola,” he at length said, “I have been thinking what course we had best pursue, to overtake these murderers before they have completed their bloody purpose. I would follow them immediately, but we must first get assistance for this fainting girl.” “Oh go,” cried she, “I can steer the boat—I can revive Eva.” Her voice, as it dwelt on the emphatic word “go,” roused the unconscious sufferer to a sense of her wretchedness. “Go—haste—save him—my brother, my father’s darling,” she shrieked in agony. “Julian, do you hesitate?” “No, Eva—I am rowing with all my strength—I must leave you in safety. My plan is formed. Your father will approve it. We must raise forces and scout the country around, for the ruffians will not dare to execute their design on the river. We can rescue the boy before they reach a place of concealment.” “Oh Julian, speed, speed fast,” she said, in a tone of touching entreaty, “my brother’s life depends upon your arm. Oh Caraola, is Arrowfoot too gone? I know he clung to him as long as life remained. Did they kill him?” “They threw him off,” replied Caraola, “but he lives still. I saw him striving to reach yonder shore. His heart is strong, and though his young arm bends like the sapling, I know the Great Spirit will strengthen it.”

The night had fallen dark and gloomy ere they reached Colonel Carlisle’s door. Eva’s cry of anguish caught her father’s ear, and he rushed to meet them. {746} “Is it my child’s voice I hear?” exclaimed he, with alarm. “Speak Eva! where is your brother? Oh God! what has befallen him?” “He is gone, father—gone! seized by strangers; hasten to pursue—Julian, tell him all!” she said, as she gasping, fell into Caraola’s arms. He briefly sketched the events of the evening, and the probable design of the ruffians, to obtain the costly watch and diamonds which it was ascertained Eldred wore as a pledge of the inheritance to which he was heir. It might be from some motive of revenge to the father, but that Colonel Carlisle’s open heart and hand, his high-minded and useful career, checked the supposition of his having a secret enemy.

The necessity for instant exertion prevented the old man’s heart from bursting under this unexpected calamity. A company was raised for immediate pursuit. Julian co-operated in every plan to regain the lost boy, and set out as the leader of a party to search every spot where it was possible the villains had found a harbor. Colonel Carlisle himself headed another, but being scarcely able to guide his own steps, he yielded to his nephew’s counsel, and returned home, that he might not delay others in their search.

We will leave Fitzgerald engaged in this fruitless enterprise, and follow the trace of the boat which bore Eldred away from all he loved on earth. He lay still in the bottom of it, with a gag in his mouth and his tender frame enveloped in a seaman’s cloak. He heard but the splash of the oars and the shrill cries of the night-hawk scared from its solitary resting place. The hardened wretches, whose victim he had become, heeded not his stifled sobs, but leaving the wide Susquehanna, rowed up Conistoga creek until they came to a little inlet, which formed a very secluded cove, overhung by precipitous banks and surrounded by unbroken wood. There they lifted out the now senseless boy, and making fast their boat to the rocks, bore him through rugged paths to an old tenantless habitation, which had once been a mill-house, but all its works having been destroyed by a recent flood it had been left a wreck in the midst of desolation. Not until they had deposited their burden in the remotest corner of the building, did these murderers break the profound silence in which they had travelled. Having descended the ladder by which they had entered the upper story, and carefully concealed it from view, they began to consult upon the best means to adopt. “Did he say,” asked McMurdough, “that he would be here before day light? I am against delaying the thing. A bird in the hand may flutter.” “He said we might depend on him,” replied Hawkins. “I would rather obey orders in these things. It is enough for my conscience to do the deed; let them bear the responsibility that get the money.” “Hush!” whispered the other; “didn’t you hear the leaves stir?” “Nothing,” said his comrade, “but that cursed whippoorwill going to set up its screech. I’ll tell you, Hawkins, I had just as lief tap the boy on the head as to crack an egg, but this Antonio is a cunning fellow. He always leaves some hole to creep out at himself, but his poor followers must take care of themselves. He likes to get others to do his dangerous deeds too, but I know I must hear the clink of the Spanish dollars or he never sets foot on the deck of the Scudder again, and so I’ve told him.” “McMurdough,” said Hawkins, “did I tell you what I heard them Yankee lubbers say, as we cruised off Newport?” “Who cares for their guesses? As soon set a parcel of clams to privateering as such as them.” “Not so fast. They showed some cuteness in their talk. One tapped the other as our vessel was gliding by and said, ‘Jonathan, as ever I hope to eat pumpkin pie thanksgiving day, that’s no English trader, though she does spread their colors. Notice how clear she keeps of “old Ironsides.” I bet you don’t find her shaking hands, if she can help it. I’ll stake a Jews-harp she hoists other colors before she gets much farther.’ ‘And strikes them too,’ replied the other. ‘That's all talk,’ said the first: ‘I’ve heard all about the Buccaneers, as they call ’em, and what nice traps are laid for ’em, but where’s one they have ever catched? Catch a pirate before you hang him say I.’” “So say I too,” said McMurdough, laughing. “As long as we have satisfaction among ourselves we may defy the devil; but some things must be altered, or I don’t serve under, Antonio.” “McMurdough, the boy keeps very quiet,” observed Hawkins: “like as not you fixed him, so he’ll die before his time.” “May be so—he’s but an unfledged bird, and will not stand rough handling. No concern of mine, I did but _his_ bidding.” “The moon is wrapping herself up in as black a cloak as ours,” remarked Hawkins, “so we might as well take a little rest. But first I’ll step above and see about the child. If he’s smothered, all the better; I never had so little mind to a job in my life.” “Why so? he says there is no doubt of the fortune—just put this one out of the way, and he’s the next heir.” “It goes against my conscience, McMurdough, to shed the blood of the young and innocent; let there be guilt where I strike.”

He ascended the ladder, and groped for the spot where lay the victim of their cruelty. No sound escaped from him, and it was not until he pulled away the gag and uncovered his face, that he perceived the boy still breathed. His pulses were quick and faint, betokening exhausted and failing life. He was evidently locked in a deep slumber, which neither the terrors of his situation nor the gripe of the iron screws, had power to break. Folded in the sweet mantle of forgetfulness, he was insensible to every thing but the busy fancies that sported in his brain. Even the stern heart of the murderer relented, when a straggling moonbeam fell on the pale face, and revealed the bruises made by the hand of violence. The fresh air seemed already to revive the young slumberer, and he had not the heart to shut it out, but turned his head towards the rent in the wall, and then endeavored to seek repose in another part of the building.

The covering of night was not so secure as the banditti supposed. The faithful Arrowfoot, with untiring step, had followed all the windings of their rugged course. Resolving not to lose the traces of their flight, he had traversed dangers which by day light would have appeared impassable; and while they were placing their charge in the upper story of the house, crept within hearing and laid himself down in a thick underwood, where his ear caught every word which passed between them. It was his presence which had scared the whippoorwill from its perch, and gave occasion to the imprecation of the ruffian. He listened intently to their discourse, which revealed all he suspected, that Julian was the contriver of the whole scheme of {747} abduction and murder. As soon as he heard this, he moved off as lightly as the air itself, and making his way to the boat they had left, seized the oars, and with the skill of a practised hand pushed over the water, straining every nerve to give the alarm before Fitzgerald’s arrival at the designated spot.

He was conscious of his danger in meeting the false-hearted villain, and blessed the thick veil of darkness which concealed his little bark from view. His only thought was to reach home before the star of Eldred’s fate had set forever; and kind nature almost seemed to stay her rapid wheels, to give the devoted Indian the only boon he sought, time to arrest the murderer’s knife. Having reached the landing, he bounded like the shot arrow, to the chamber where the wretched father paced the floor in the phrensy of despair. Arrowfoot rushed into his presence, exclaiming, “Where is Fitzgerald?” “Not returned,” replied the deep voice of agony, “the search is fruitless—Julian delays to confirm the fatal tidings.” “Hasten, Carlisle, if ever you hope to see your son again—he lives, but the hour for his death is appointed—the assassin waits but the sentence from the mouth of your nephew Fitzgerald to despatch him. Stand not motionless. Doubt not the certainty of what I tell you. I have pursued the ruffians and heard all the plot. In two hours, Eldred’s fate may be sealed: for the ruffians wait but the return of their leader, Julian Fitzgerald. Arm yourselves and follow me,” he cried to the gathering retainers of the household, as, seizing the first weapon that came to his hand, he darted towards the river where he had fastened the little skiff.

While Arrowfoot is leading the way towards the lonely habitation where he had left the imprisoned boy, we will follow the covert footsteps of Julian. After he had prevailed on Colonel Carlisle to retire from the search, he dispersed the band under his guidance, in every direction, but the right one, and under pretence of making inquiries at a small fishing station, sailed down the river alone, intending to take this opportunity to meet the instruments of his dark purposes.

The brow of McMurdough lowered with angry impatience, as leaning against an overshadowing tree, he waited the appearance of Fitzgerald. The assassin knew too well his rapacity for wealth to believe that any trivial cause could detain him, and yet the “slow paced night” had nearly finished her circuit without his coming. At length the glimmer of twilight gave place to the broad day, and still he came not. In a state of fearful doubt and uncertainty McMurdough strode backwards and forwards, resolving the part he should take.

The return of light roused the sleeping senses of Eldred. The unfinished dream still floated in his fancy, and gave color to his words. “Oh! Arrowfoot you have saved me from falling headlong down the precipice. I should have perished but for you.” “Who?” muttered the hoarse voice of Hawkins. Shuddering, at the sound the boy looked up, and beheld the savage visage of the robber bending over him. His recollection suddenly returned, and clinging to the cloak of the robber who was endeavoring to withdraw, he plead for mercy in the most moving terms. “What have I done,” he exclaimed “how have I wronged you, or any one else? Tell me, and I will restore you fourfold. Only spare my life, that is all I ask, and you shall be rewarded. I am my father’s darling, he will give all he has for my life. Think, were you a father, had you but one son, the hope of your age, the pillow of your widowed heart, and he were torn——” “Boy, boy, your words pierce me like a sword! And yet it is not the voice of a child that can shake the mind from its purpose. It is the voice of the Almighty, crying _blood for blood!_ What! can nothing pay the forfeit of blood, but blood again? Whose blood must pay this boy’s? The deep answer speaks in my soul, my own child’s blood is the price. I dare not, no I will not shed a drop of yours. Let others answer for their own deeds,” he said, slowly retiring. As soon as he was alone, Eldred lifted up his heart to God, and prayed that he who hears the young ravens when they cry, would deliver him out of the hands of his enemies. Feeling tranquillized by casting himself upon the Almighty arm, he calmly surveyed the waving woodlands, and rushing streams, where had been the pastime and joy of his childhood. His eye caught the upwards flight of the “cloud cleaving eagle” soaring with unchained wing in boundless air, and he thought of the days when his heart bounded on wing as free and joyous, and the tears gushed from their full fountains as his head sunk on the broken aperture of the wall on which he was leaning. Absorbed in deep sorrow he heeded not the angry colloquy of the Kidnappers below, debating the point of his instant death or release, Hawkins refusing to take any further part in his destruction, and McMurdough in brutal ferocity at Fitzgerald’s delay, threatening his immediate assassination. A confused noise of voices approaching, broke in upon their dialogue, putting every other idea to flight, but that of immediate escape; and they fled towards a deep ravine, hoping to secrete themselves in it, until the pursuit was over; but it was too late. The wary Indian had placed a guard at every pass, and they were soon made prisoners. What was their astonishment to see Fitzgerald in the train of their pursuers? The unusual darkness of the night, prevented his finding the secret path to the place of rendezvous, and seeing himself totally at fault, he was obliged to await the glimmer of day light, in order to proceed more securely. Arrowfoot’s ear caught the sound of his stealthy tread, and warning his followers to advance cautiously, he darted forward, and intercepted Fitzgerald, at the spot where his followers had left the boat. It instantly flashed across his mind that his base design was known to the Indian; and resolving that his secret should perish with him, he drew his sabre and attempted to close with his adversary. But the movement was perceived in time for Arrowfoot to place himself on his guard; and although Julian was quick of eye and firm of foot, he gained no vantage ground. He was confident of success, for few had ever resisted that arm who encountered it in deadly strife: but Arrowfoot, with agile spring, always eluded the sweep of his weapon, and repaid his efforts by honest downright blows with a battle axe which he had seized from the boat of the Pirates. In the first moment of conflict, a shrill cry had given signal to the band of pursuers, but before they reached the spot, Julian Fitzgerald lay prostrate and disarmed at the feet of their leader. The skill and self possession which until now had always ensured him victory, failed in his struggle with the Indian. Conscience, defied so {748} long, at last asserted its power, and unnerved his arm. He uttered no word of wrath or of fear; but his clenched teeth, and the wild glare of his eye, spoke the roused ferocity of the demon within. Arrowfoot, leaving the prisoners in the care of the rest of his party, flew to the captive boy. Eldred was aroused from his slumber by his hurried steps. Thinking his murderers had returned to do the work of death, he dropped from his resting place on the wall, and terror depriving him of every other sensation, he heeded not the rush of many feet, or the cries of his distracted father calling his name. The deeply moving voice of Arrowfoot at length awoke him to the consciousness of life and hope. A faint sob was the only expression he was able to give to these overpowering emotions. In speechless ecstasy he gazed on the haggard face of his father; who, with clasped hands and streaming eyes, gave thanks to the Almighty for his merciful interposition.

The Indian soon became aware of the danger of such a reaction in the feelings of the boy, and bore him from Colonel Carlisle’s presence into the near forest, where placing him on the bank of a murmuring rivulet, he bathed his temples, and, aided by the soothing sights and sounds of nature, soon restored him to tranquillity, and enabled him to return with his father and friends to the home where his sister watched with straining eyes, for some messenger who would tell her of his safety or his death.