THEBOYSTOODLIKE ASTATUE
THEBOYSTOODLIKE ASTATUE
The three retainers of Halpen, as well as the surveyor and his ’prentice, halted instantly, but Simon strode on, his eyes blazing and his great nose growing ruddier as his rage increased. “Your land–your land, forsooth!” he exclaimed. “I’ll teach ye better than that, ye young viper!”
Instantly Enoch had his rifle to his shoulder and had drawn bead upon the Yorker. The muzzle of the weapon covered Halpen’s heart. The boy stood like a statue–there was no trembling to his young arms. “Back! If you come a yard nearer I will fire!” he cried. He did not recognize his own voice, but Halpen heard him plainly and was impressed with his earnestness. He stopped suddenly, half raising his own gun. “Don’t do that!” cried Enoch, instantly. “Keep your gun down. Why, I have but to press this trigger and you will drop where you are! Be warned.”
“Hi, captain,” growled one of his supporters, “the little varmint means it. Have a care.”
“You–you—” Halpen only sputtered for a moment. He could not find words to properly express his rage. “I believe on my life, he would shoot me.”
“I certainly will, Master Simon Halpen, if you come nearer. You are quite near enough. You have come here for no good purpose. We own this land–my father paid for it and has improved it. He may be dead, but we will show you how we can defend the place from you Yorkers.”
“You crow loud, my young cock-o’-th’-walk!” exclaimed Simon Halpen, yet seeking to come no nearer the boy. “But you cannot hope to stand before his Majesty’s officers–though some of you vagabond Whigs have become bold of late. Know ye that I bear authority from the loyal governor of his Majesty’s Colony of New York, to turn you off this land, which is mine and has been mine for these six years.”
“And I have told you that you cannot come here and drive us off, for we shall fight ye!” declared Enoch, his anger rising. “And what be more, Master Halpen, though ye might succeed in driving us off, ye could not hold this land. It is too near Bennington, and ye know well what sort of men Bennington folk are, and what they would do to you.”
At this reminder of his former embarrassment, when caught by the neighbors and “viewed,” Simon Halpen flew into a towering rage. He shook his rifle in the air as he berated the fearless youth. “Have a care with that gun, Master Halpen,” said Enoch, “for it might go off by accident. And if such a thing should happen I would shoot you down–’deed and I would!”
This warning cooled the man’s ardor somewhat. For a full minute he stood silent eyeing Enoch from under his shaggy brows. “Would you dare flout me to my face?” he demanded.
“I dare keep my rights here, Master Halpen, as my father did before me,” said Enoch, his voice trembling for the first time. And at the mention of the dead and gone Jonas Harding more than Enoch were moved. Halpen’s manner changed; his face paled perceptibly; the fire died out of his eyes and his nose no longer glowed. He dropped his head and half turned as though to leave the spot.
But suddenly one of his retainers stepped forward and whispered in his ear. The whisper brought the leader to his old mind. His head came up and he flashed a look of bitter hatred at Enoch. He nodded to the man who had spoken and instantly the three armed retainers began to quietly spread out as though to surround the house. “I’ll parley no longer with you, my lad,” Halpen said, shortly. “This land is mine and you are naught but squatters on it. And as such you shall be put off, or my name is not Simon Halpen!”
Quick as thought Enoch darted backward to the house, for he had noted the action of the three men. “It is fighting you want, then, Master Halpen?” cried the boy, shrilly. “And you will get bullets instead of fair words if you press us–now I tell ye that! This is our home and we shall fight for it.”
“Stop the young rascal!” roared Halpen, raising his gun now in earnest, when he saw that Enoch no longer had him “covered.” But the boy dodged into the house and slammed to the heavy door. As he did so a bullet buried itself in the door frame. Halpen had actually fired.
The widow herself dropped the bars into place, for she had come out of her chamber and heard the conversation between her son and the Yorker. Now Enoch ran to one of the loopholes from which he could observe the movements of the man who had shot at him in so cowardly a manner. He saw that the surveyor, who had thus far kept in the background, was expostulating with the angry man. He could not hear what they said, but it was evident that the surveyor was a man of some conscience and could not see such murderous actions without striving to put Halpen in better mind. But the latter shook him off in rage and loaded his gun again. The house was now surrounded by the four armed men and the three understrappers were only waiting Halpen’s command to fire.
“Shall I shoot him? shall I shoot him?” cried Bryce, from the loft.
“Hold your fire!” commanded Enoch. “You may have blood on your hands yet, if you be not careful.”
“But he fired at you.”
“And a poor job he made of it. We will not fire unless we are forced to.”
His mother said never a word. She went into her chamber again and with the girls and little Harry crouched upon the bed. But she glanced frequently from the loophole to observe the movements of the Yorker upon that side of the clearing.
By and by Halpen raised his voice and addressed the besieged. “Open the door and come out, or we will batter it down. And it will go hard with you then, I warrant! If you give up the place peaceably you may cart away your household stuff and the cattle and hogs. I’ll not be too hard on you.”
“If you come near this door I will send a bullet through your black heart!” was Enoch’s reply, poking the muzzle of his rifle through the loophole beside which he stood.
The widow came running from the chamber. “Enoch! Enoch!” she cried, in horror. “Would you kill him?”
“He killed my father!” cried the boy, before he thought what explanation of his secret suspicions that remark might necessitate.
“The child is mad!” she murmured, after staring at him a full minute. “You do not know what you say, Enoch. Master Halpen had naught to do with your poor father’s death.”
But Enoch had not to reply. A cry came from Bryce in the loft. “Look at that! Look at that!” he shouted, with excitement. “I just will shoot him!”
And then his old musket spoke. There was a yell from without. Enoch thought Simon Halpen himself had been shot, but the Yorker only ran around the end of the cabin to where one of his men stood howling like a wolf, and holding on to his swinging arm.
“I’ve broke his arm!” declared Bryce, proudly, coming to the head of the ladder. “He was flinging blazing clods on the roof.”
“What shall we do?” gasped the mother. “My boys will be murderers.”
“I’ll kill them all before they’ll harm you, mother,” declared young Bryce, very proud indeed that he had hit the mark, but secretly delighted as well that he had done the villainous Yorker no serious damage.
But the moment after, he shrieked aloud and came again to the top of the ladder. His face was blanched. “Oh, oh! they’ve done it–they’ve done it!” he cried. “The roof is afire. Don’t you smell it?”
Enoch could not believe that this horror was true until he had run up to the loft. The red flames were already showing at the edge of the house wall, and the crackling without told him that the bark and binders of the roof were burning fiercely. “Tear it off!” he shouted, and dropping his rifle he seized a length of sawed scantling which his father had brought from the mill, and began to break up the burning roof and cast it off. But as it fell to the ground against the house, soon the logs outside were afire. The dwelling was indeed imperiled.
“Come out! come out!” shouted Simon Halpen’s voice. “The hut will burn to the ground an’ ye’ll burn with it. Ye’ll go to Albany jail for this, every last one of ye!”
“Let me shoot him, mother!” cried Bryce, doubly excited now. “He’ll never take you to jail.”
“Come down from the loft, Bryce,” the widow commanded, calmly. “Nothing can save the cabin now.”
The children were crying with fear. The red flames began to lick the edges of the shutters and the door frame was afire. If they escaped they must pass through a wall of flame. The men outside, frightened by the result of their awful act, were shouting orders and berating each other madly. Yet none dared come too near, for they feared the guns of the defenders of the homestead. Enoch for the moment completely lost his head and stood as one daft.
But his mother was not so. Swiftly did she sweep aside the ashes on the hearth. Then of her own exertions she lifted on its edge the flat stone which covered the underground apartment. There was the ladder the boys had made leading down into the cool depths. “Down with you–all!” she commanded, seizing little Harry first and thrusting his feet upon the ladder.
“Oh, we’ll smother down there, mother!” cried Kate.
“Nonsense!” exclaimed the widow, yet with shaking voice. “Do you think mother would tell you to do anything that would hurt you?”
But though she encouraged them to descend, in her own mind she was simply choosing the lesser of two terrible evils. The girls and Harry descended quickly; but she had to fairly force Bryce down. He wanted to stay and fight, and he clung to the old musket desperately. Although the tears were running down his face, he was made of the stuff which holds the soldier, though frightened, to his post.
“Go down yourself, mother,” Enoch said, recovering his presence of mind and speaking calmly now. “I will follow you and drop the stone into place. But first I want to look out—”
He ran to the loophole, through which the smoke was now pouring. But after a moment there was a break in the cloud and he saw the group of frightened Yorkers plainly. They stood not many rods away and poking his rifle through the hole, he aimed at the villainous Halpen and, pulling the trigger, ran back to the hearth before the echo of the shot died away. Down the ladder he darted, dropping the heavy hearthstone into place, and leaving the cabin which for so many years had been their home, to be consumed above their heads. But his heart sank when he found how closely the six packed the tiny room and realized how little air reached them down here in the earth.
At daybreak on this very morning when the Yorkers attacked the Harding place, ’Siah Bolderwood returning from the direction of Old Ti, suddenly came upon a little glade on the bank of the Walloomscoik Creek. With the instinct long gained by his life as hunter and woodsman, he never crossed an open space in the forest without examining it well. In this glade he saw, at first glance, the signs of recent occupancy. The smouldering ashes of a campfire and the marks on the creek bank told him that a canoe party had camped there during the night and that they had been under way but shortly. Making sure that they were now out of sight he more closely examined the spot. The party numbered at least half a dozen, and there had been two canoes. He had come up the creek bank himself; therefore, not having seen the strangers, they had gone on ahead of him. Five miles or so up the stream lay the ox-bow at which his old friend Jonas Harding settled when he came into the Disputed Grounds, and where the widow and her brood now lived. After examining the camp he quickened his step toward the Harding place.
A mile further on, however, he heard the stroke of paddles and the sound of men’s voices. He would have gone to the fringed river bank and peered out upon the stream had not a figure suddenly risen before him as though from the ground itself and barred his way. “How d’ye, Crow Wing!” he exclaimed, yet showing no surprise at the Indian youth’s appearance. The latter bore a brace of rabbits on his gun and Bolderwood guessed that he belonged to the canoe party and had left them to get this game for their dinner.
“Umph!” returned the Indian and looked at him stolidly.
“Your people?” asked the ranger, with a gesture toward the river.
“Umph!” was the reply. It might have meant yes or no. Crow Wing seemed undecided. “Why you no at Hardings?” he demanded finally.
“I’m bound that a-way now,” said the white man.
“Hunting?” grunted Crow Wing.
“Been up to Old Ti. Bought some land up there.”
Crow Wing seemed about to pass on. But over his shoulder he said: “You go to Hardings’ farm. They want you–mebbe.”
“What for?”
The Indian shrugged his shoulders and walked on. But Bolderwood strode after him. “What’s going on?” he asked, anxiously. “Who’s that out yonder?” nodding again toward the creek.
“Umph! Men hire Crow Wing to paddle canoe. They go to Hardings’.”
“Yorkers!” exclaimed Bolderwood.
But the Indian youth said no more and quickly disappeared in the bushes which overhung the creek. The ranger hesitated a moment, appeared to think of following him, and then turned abruptly and plunged into the forest on a course diagonal from the river. Therefore, when Nuck and Bryce were fighting the bears in the swamp he did not hear their guns, being by that time some miles away and striding rapidly toward Arlington. He had suspected the truth and instead of wasting time observing the party of which Crow Wing was a member, he had it in his mind to rouse the neighbors to go to the aid of the widow and her children. After the affair at Otter Creek, which he was sorry indeed to have missed, Bolderwood had expected something like the present raid. He, like the Hardings, believed that Simon Halpen would find the time ripe for the carrying out of his nefarious designs.
It was the season of the year when the farm work having been completed, the pioneers felt free to go about more, and hunting was popular. Many men were off with their rifles; but Bolderwood picked up some half dozen determined fellows and hastened back to the Harding place. While yet some distance away they heard a rifle shot and so disturbed was the ranger by this, that he started on the run for the ox-bow farm, and was far ahead of his friends when he broke cover at the edge of the forest and beheld the cabin.
His horror and despair when he saw the house wrapped in flames and the Yorkers running across the fields toward the river, knew no bounds. Yet even then he did not suppose that the widow and her family were within the burning dwelling. He presumed they must be hiding in the outbuildings and he ran on after the fleeing Yorkers, thinking only to take vengeance upon them for their wanton cruelty in burning down the poor woman’s house at the beginning of winter.
One man kept turning back to look at the blazing structure which was now more than half consumed; and this fellow the ranger quickly overtook. It was the surveyor and he was wringing his hands and weeping as he ran. Bolderwood dashed past him without a word, seeing plainly that he was not armed and was sore frightened. “I’ll attend to your case later,” the ranger muttered, and spurred on after the rest of the party. But they were too quick for him, and having reached the bank of the creek leaped into their canoes and the Indians pushed off. The fear of what they had done pressed them hard and they had run like madmen from their single pursuer. Now at an order from Halpen the Indians stolidly paddled down the river again and were quickly out of sight around the nearest bend in the stream.
Bolderwood went back and found the surveyor prone upon the ground and weeping like a woman. “Get up, you great ca’f!” cried the ranger. “Nobody’ll kill you for your part in this matter though you desarve little mercy.... Was that Simon Halpen?”
“It was indeed–the demon!” gasped the fellow, dragged unceremoniously to his feet by the borderer.
“If he ever comes into this colony again I doubt but he’ll be hung as high as Haman,” Bolderwood declared. “And you were the surveyor, eh? One of Duane & Kempe’s men? Well, sir, your back will be well tickled, or my name’s not ’Siah Bolderwood! But bear up, man–’tis no killing punishment.”
“What, sir?” cried the fellow. “Do you think I weep because of your promised punishment? I fear you not–I am a leal subject of the King and peaceful. You cannot touch me. But I weep because of the work that dastard has done this day.”
“What do you mean?” cried Bolderwood, fiercely. “Where is the woman and her bairns?”
The surveyor pointed a shaking finger at the cabin, the smoking walls of which were now all that were standing. “They are there. Wait! let me tell you. I had nothing to do with the dreadful work. Nor, indeed, did Simon Halpen mean to destroy the house and the poor woman and children. They meant to burn the roof off to scare them out, and one man threw burning clods on it. But those inside tore off the flaming roof and it fell all around the cabin and set the walls afire. They dared not run out through that wall of flame and smothered to death they were–God pity them!” and he began to weep aloud again.
Bolderwood was speechless–well-nigh overcome, indeed, with the horror of this. He saw his friends appear from the wood on the other side of the house and he walked toward them like one in a dream. But still he clung to the surveyor’s arm and forced him to approach the cabin. The roof had, of course, been completely consumed, and the outside of the walls was blackened and still blazed fiercely at the corners. The window shutters and door were burned away and the interior of the place was badly demolished.
“Where’s the widder and the boys?” shouted one of the newcomers to Bolderwood. The old ranger did not answer, but his hand tightened upon the surveyor’s arm. Suddenly the latter shrieked and would have fallen to the ground had not the grasp upheld him. In the door of the burning cabin stood the figure of Enoch Harding, his face covered with smut and his clothing half burned off his back. For a moment the surveyor believed the dead had risen and he covered his face with his hands to shut out the sight of the boy.
“Are ye all alive, lad?” shouted Bolderwood, dropping the surveyor and running forward.
“We’re all right, but well-nigh smothered,” returned Enoch, hoarsely. “Bring–bring some water!”
He staggered out of the cabin and fell upon the ground. In a moment the surprised neighbors were running with buckets and pans from the well, for Mistress Harding’s milk vessels had been left to dry outside the springhouse. Bolderwood took it upon himself to revive the half-strangled Enoch, while the others dashed water over the smouldering interior of the cabin, putting out the fire on the floor which was burning briskly, and finally being able to draw the widow and the smaller children from the secret room under the hearth and carry them to the outer air. Here they quickly revived and Mistress Harding with the girls and little Harry took shelter in one of the hovels.
The destruction of the cabin was practically complete. There was not a log that was not charred, and the interior furnishings of the house were ruined. The kind-hearted neighbors saved the chests of bedclothing and the family’s best garments, for the flames had not gotten at them. But everything was sadly smoked. And the house would have to be torn down and rebuilt with new timber throughout. It was a sad spectacle indeed for Enoch and Bryce to look upon. “I wish I had shot them all!” cried the latter in a rage. But Enoch said nothing. He would not whisper how his anger had made him aim to kill Simon Halpen. Now, in cool blood, he was glad that the bullet had not sped true.
But the condition of the house filled him with despair. Winter was at hand and it would be next to impossible to build a good house before spring, although the timbers could be drawn and squared while the snow was on the ground. What would they do for a shelter until then? “We’ll make yonder hovel that you boys play in, all tight and warm for the winter, Nuck,” Bolderwood observed, seeing the tears running down the boy’s cheeks. “Don’t cry about it. And we’ll have up a better house than this in the spring, lad. The neighbors will all help ye.”
Meanwhile, however, Bolderwood had kept his eye upon the surveyor. The latter, seeing that the family had been so miraculously saved from the fire, sought to get away while the men were saving those goods which were unconsumed. But Bolderwood was after him with mighty strides and dragged him back, a prisoner. “Nay, friend, you’ll be needed here as a witness,” he said, grimly. “We don’t allow such gentry as you in the Hampshire Grants without presenting you with a token of our respect and consideration. Ha!” he added, suddenly, “whom have we here?”
A horseman rode quickly out of the wood and approached the burned cabin. Before he pulled in his steed the men welcomed him vociferously, for it was Captain Baker. “Look at this, ’Member!” cried Bolderwood, dragging the trembling surveyor forward. “What a sight this is to blister the eyes of decent men! A poor widder’s house burned about her ears and only by the mercy of God were she and her youngsters saved.”
“The villains!” roared Baker. “And is that one of them?”
“He was with the party. But I truly believe that he had little to do with this dastardly work. He’s only a poor surveyor body.”
“We’ll find shelter with some neighbor for Mistress Harding and the little ones,” said Baker, “and then attend to his case without delay.”
But the widow was not minded to leave her homestead. It was not yet very cold and the hovel in which the children had had their frolic a fortnight before was easily made comfortable for the family. She set about this at once while Captain Baker and the neighbors sat in judgment upon the trembling surveyor. These impromptu courts held by the Green Mountain Boys when they happened to capture a Yorker guilty of meddling with the settlers, were in the nature of a court martial. Sometimes the sentences imposed were doubtless unjust, for the judges and juries were naturally bitter against the prisoners; but the punishment seldom went beyond a sound whipping, and in this case the surveyor, still sputtering and objecting to the illegal procedure, was sentenced to two score lashes, save one, and Enoch and Bryce selected the blue beech wands with which the sentence was to be carried out.
The surveyor was taken behind the log barn, his coat and shirt stripped from his back, and Bolderwood and one of the other neighbors fulfilled the order of Captain Baker as judge of the military court. Bolderwood, remembering the tears the prisoner had shed when he thought the family burned alive, could not be too hard upon him, and although the woodsman made every appearance of striking tremendous blows, he scarce raised a welt upon the man’s back. But when the other executioner laid on for the last nineteen strokes, the surveyor roared with pain and without doubt the lesson was one which did him good. It would be many a day before he ventured to survey the lands east of the Twenty-Mile Line–at least, not until his back stopped smarting. Finally he was given his clothing, and part of the band marched him across country to the New York border and turned him loose.
The attack of Simon Halpen upon the Hardings had practically failed. Yet the loss of their home was a sore blow. In a couple of days, with the help of Bolderwood, the old hovel was made very habitable. But it was small and so many of their possessions had been burned that even Bryce cried about it. Nevertheless their supply of food was all right, and the cattle had not been injured. Also, with Bolderwood’s assistance, the three bears which the boys had so happily killed, were brought home, the hams smoked, some of the meat salted, and the pelts stretched and dried for winter bed coverings. By the time the snow lay deep upon the earth the Hardings were once more comfortable.
The boys did very little trapping and hunting that winter of ’72-’73 for they could not attend to traps set very far from the ox-bow, and the Walloomscoik country was becoming scarce of game. ’Siah Bolderwood did not go back to Old Ti, either, but contented himself with making short hunting trips around the lower part of the lake, for he spent all the time he could spare in helping the widow and her boys to get the timber ready for their new abode. Enoch and Bryce were determined that this new structure should be much better than the log cabin which their father had erected ten years before, and every timber dragged to the site by the slow moving oxen was squared with the broad ax and carefully fitted so as to “lock” at the corners. Some planks were sawed at the mill and sledded to the ox-bow on the ice, too, and when the plaintive call of the muckawis–the Indian name for the “whip-poor-will,”–ushered in the spring, a noble company of Green Mountain Boys gathered to build the widow’s house again.
Although the new house was put up and made habitable in about ten days, it took some time to fit window-frames, build two partitions, for there were to be two sleeping chambers on the ground floor in this house, which was larger than the old structure, and lay the floor of the loft, build bunks to sleep in, make a new meal chest and dresser, and construct other articles of furniture which were needed to replace the stuff burned in the fire. Enoch had a mechanical turn of mind and Bryce made an able assistant. Between them they turned out a new table, several chairs with hide backs and seats, and even essayed a “rocker” for their mother which, although rudely built and with its rockers not exactly even, was declared by Mrs. Harding to be a marvel of workmanship.
All these things had to be done besides the regular work of the farm during the spring and summer, and the studies of the older boys were rather neglected that year, greatly to the delight of Bryce. Indeed, several of their mother’s precious books had been destroyed by the flames, and had it not been for the sorrow he knew she felt at their loss, Bryce would have openly expressed his satisfaction. He was born for the woods and fields, and although he made no objection to farmwork, it was plain that his father’s roving disposition had entered strongly into the make-up of the lad.
He still felt injured–indeed, the feeling grew with his own growth–because he was not allowed to join the military companies; but Mistress Harding had finally promised that if he could trap enough game the next winter to pay for a new gun–a rifle instead of the old musket which had once been Nuck’s and which their father had brought with him on his return from the French wars–he should be allowed to attend the Bennington drills. That was putting the privilege a year ahead, but Bryce was partially contented with it.
Lot Breckenridge had finally been allowed to join the Green Mountain Boys and so Enoch had somebody in his company near his own age. On several occasions there were frolics in the neighborhood to which the young people foregathered, and before the new house was built Lot and Enoch had gone on a very brief hunting trio. But as fall again approached the two friends, Lot and Enoch, planned to go trapping on the upper waters of the Otter and its branches as soon as harvest and hog-killing should be over and the winter really set in. Lot had several steel traps which had belonged to his father, and Enoch was likewise supplied. Both had canoes, but they agreed to use Enoch’s only, as one was all they cared to “pack” over the portage to the upper Otter.
Meantime throughout the Grants the line between the Whigs and Tories had become more distinct. Although it had been forbidden for any person to hold office or issue writs under advice from New York, in certain sections where the Tory sentiment was strong, New York justices continued to write papers of ejectment against the Hampshire settlers, and other Yorkers were found to serve the documents and on occasion to drive helpless farmers and their families from their homes. These affairs went on openly in the town of Durham, which was a Tory stronghold.
Justice Benjamin Spencer was the principal official who dealt out the New York brand of justice in this town, and he resided in the village of Clarendon. Early in the fall Ethan Allen and a force of Green Mountain Boys, appeared at Clarendon and read to the people the resolutions passed by the Bennington Council to the effect that no person should do any official act under New York authority, and that all lands should be held under title from New Hampshire. The Durhamites were threatened that, if they refused to comply with these orders within a reasonable time, they would be made to suffer for their temerity. At this visit Judge Spencer absconded, remaining away from home until he was sure “the awful Green Mountain outlaws” had decamped.
Enoch and Lot planned their start into the woods in November, and they were nearly ready when the second raid on Durham was proposed. The boys knew that the matter had been discussed by Colonel Allen and the other leaders for some time, for Justice Spencer still continued to disobey the orders of the Council of Safety, and the matter could not be ignored. It was past the middle of November when the commander of the Green Mountain Boys and some of his followers set out in the direction of Durham, and Lot and Enoch hurried their own going, determined to hide their canoe when once they reached the Otter and join in the descent upon Clarendon village.
It was eleven o’clock at night, November 20th, that Colonel Allen, Captain Baker, and more than a score of their friends, entered the settlement with all the care and circumlocution of Indians. Nuck and Lot Breckenridge had joined the party at supper time in a certain rendezvous of Allen’s in the woods, having hidden their canoe and traps on the bank of the Otter several miles away. The attacking force of Green Mountain Boys was heavily armed and might have been bound upon an expedition against Fort Ticonderoga itself, one might imagine. But a show of force was thought to be necessary to overawe the Yorkers who made up more than half the population of the village.
The Green Mountain Boys awakened nobody in their approach to the house of Justice Spencer, until the leader himself thundered at the door and demanded that the New York official come down. After some parley, and seeing that there was no help for his case, Spencer descended and, as the next day was Sunday and nothing could be done then, the prisoner was hidden in the house of Mr. Green, some mile and a half from the settlement, until Monday morning. Early on that day, a still larger force of Grants men having gathered, as well as settlers whose titles had been derived from New York, Justice Spencer was taken to the door of his own house and tried.
The inquest, with Allen, Warner, Baker, and Cochran, sitting in judgment, was carried forward with all due formality, although the judges were the principal accusers of the prisoners, and the sentence was finally pronounced that the prisoner’s house be burned and he himself give his bond to not again act as a New York justice. At this the doughty justice broke down, for he plainly saw that his captors were quite able, and in the mind, to carry out the sentence. He told the court that if his house were burned his store of dry goods and all his property would be destroyed and his wife and children made destitute.
“And have you and your like not made many of our friends destitute?” cried some of the crowd. But more showed some heart for the justice, notably Captain Warner. Warner finally suggested that as the dry goods store was a public benefit and was one of the few stores in the township, it should be saved if possible; and it would be too hard at that time of year to turn the man and his family out of their home. He declared for taking off the roof of the prisoner’s house and then putting it on again, providing that Spencer acknowledged that it was put on under a New Hampshire title, and that he would purchase the same at once. Spencer, who might have felt some gratitude by this time, promised compliance in every particular, and with great shouting and good-nature, the roof of the house was lifted off and then put on again. And the lesson to the Durhamites was a salutary one.
Enoch Harding and his chum left immediately after the settlement of the case and returned to their canoe. They feared the approach of a storm which threatened, and were desirous of building their winter camp and getting their traps set before the forest would be full of snow and the streams completely frozen. Both boys were very good woodsmen by this time, for Bolderwood had been Enoch’s mentor and Lot’s uncle was an old ranger who knew every trick of the forest and trail. They selected a heavily wooded gulley not far from the Otter and built there a log lean-to against the rocky side-hill, sheltered from the north and open to such sunshine as might penetrate the forest. The traps were set along the bank of the stream, some of them in the water itself, where the boys’ sharp eyes told them that the fur-bearing game of which they were in search, were wont to pass.
A fortnight after the Durham riot, as the Yorkers were pleased to call the visit of the Green Mountain Boys, the two friends were very cozily fixed in the gully. One heavy snow had fallen, and their traps had begun to repay their attention most generously. Then the Otter froze over solidly and they had to keep the ice open about their traps with the axe. They were in a lonely piece of wood and day after day saw nor heard nobody but themselves. The bears had taken to their long winter sleep; but the fierce catamount was still abroad, and at night the howling of the wolf-pack as it followed some hard-pressed doe or decrepit buck, reached the boys’ ears. And at that day the timber-wolf of the Green Mountains–a long, lean, gray creature as big as a mastiff–was much to be feared.
The traps stretched so far along the creek that if one went out alone to examine and bait them, almost the entire day was consumed. The boys did not possess ice-runners, or skates, with which they might have skimmed over the frozen creek and visited the traps in a couple of hours. Each had brought a pair of snow-shoes, but these were of no use on the creek. So baiting the traps was no easy task. Usually they divided the work between them and thus got it over and had time to stretch and scrape their pelts in the afternoon. One day, however, Lot remained at camp to make some repairs on his clothing, and Enoch set out early to go the rounds by himself.
It had been a very cold night and the ice was frozen solidly about the traps. The catch had been good, too, and both of these facts delayed the young trapper more than common. There were fish lines to examine, also, for some of the traps were baited with fish which was considered particularly tempting food for certain of the beasts they wished to catch. It was long past noon when Enoch got back to the camp for dinner, and then he had gone over but half the line of traps. When he started in the other direction after hastily eating the meal, he knew he should be out until past moonrise, and told Lot so.
“I’ll come and meet you,” said his campmate.
“No need. Reckon I can find my way back alone,” said Enoch. “The moon’ll be up by seven and it’s nigh full.”
It was so, yet Enoch had no thought when he left the camp that he would be as long delayed as he was. It was full moonrise, before the boy had examined the last trap. He had a goodly load on turning his face campward and was glad of the company of his rifle as he heard the wolves clamoring in the forest. The bitter cold would make them ravenous by now, for many of the more easily caught animals had retired for the winter, while the strong crust on the snow enabled the deer to outdistance their shaggy enemies. While still three miles or more from camp he heard the beasts howling so savagely that he really became alarmed and would have thrown down his pack and run had he not shrunk from so betraying his fear to Lot.
He knew, too, by the nature of the wolves’ cries that they were close on the track of some quarry, and that it could not be his trail they were following, for they were approaching the creek through the timber on the western side of the stream. But the sound of the chase drew rapidly nearer, and desperately as Enoch hurried he could not distance the pack. The western bank was high and sloping just here and with anxious eyes the boy looked up the white incline, where the trees stood rather far apart, to catch the first glimpse possible of the wolves and their prey. Suddenly there came into view several dark objects moving swiftly over the snow. One was ahead, flitting from tree to tree, its identity almost indistinguishable at first. Then, with almost a shriek of horror, Enoch recognized the wolves’ quarry as a human being!
The pursued was on snow-shoes and coming to a steeper part of the creek bank, at once slid down to the ice. After him, their red tongues hanging to their breasts, and baying at every leap, came a round dozen of the ravenous creatures. Enoch saw that the unfortunate man was armed with a gun, but that evidently the weapon had been injured in some way, for he did not make use of it to beat off the wolves. He limped as he ran, too, and the young trapper saw plainly that the pack would overtake and pull him down in a very few moments.
Once upon the ice the beasts spread out and almost surrounded him. While he limped on most awkwardly, the strong, sharp claws of the wolves helped them over the surface and soon the leader–a gaunt, gray monster with cropped ears and scarred back–leaped to seize the prey. Enoch, without a thought of his own danger, had hurried on, re-priming his rifle as he ran; but he was scarcely within fair gun-shot when the wolf leaped. The beast caught the fugitive by the shoulder, and its weight dragged the man down. He tripped upon his snow-shoes and in an instant was falling face-downward on the ice with the pack of hungry beasts fighting above him!
Enoch fired his rifle into the midst of the pack as he ran, but although one of the wolves rolled over, kicking convulsively upon the ice, the others scarcely noticed the attack. So eager were they to get at the quarry which they had followed far, that the shot did not frighten them. But the boy was among them in a moment, his gun clubbed, and a fierce desire in his heart to slay the horrid beasts.
He really thought the fallen man was killed, and his attack was inspired wholly by a desire for revenge. He laid about him with the gun-stock in a most furious fashion, and the wolves were soon cleared from above their prostrate victim. His attack quelled the courage of the pack for a little, and even the leader shrank away, howling dolefully. But the respite was not sufficient to allow Enoch to reload his gun.
When the brutes fell back, the man upon the ice showed that he was by no means dead, though his exhaustion was plain. He struggled to his knees, and reaching up seized the hunting-knife from Enoch’s belt, and the small axe with which the latter had cut the ice away from his traps. With one of these weapons in each hand he crouched in readiness to defend himself when the wolves should renew their attack.
And he had not long to wait, for both hunger and natural ferocity urged them on. Suddenly the leader, with a savage snarl which fairly turned the blood cold in Enoch’s veins, cast itself full at him!
Raised upon his hind legs the old timber-wolf, the hero of a thousand fights with other pack-leaders, or with the young upstarts of his own tribe, was fully as tall as his antagonist. The sight of its wide red jaws, from which the froth flew as it does from the lips of a mad dog, the gleaming yellow teeth, the capacious throat which seemed fairly to steam with the fetid breath expelled from the beast’s lungs, almost overcame young Harding. For the moment he was enthralled by the terrifying appearance of the wolf, and his arms lacked the strength necessary to swing his gun.
The charge would surely have overborne him had Enoch not slipped upon the ice as he shrank back, and providentially he fell upon one knee. The wolf had sprung at his throat and the pioneer lad’s sinking to the ice caused the beast to leap clear over both the human actors in the drama. But as its lean gray body flashed past, the stranger reached up and with Enoch’s keen hunting-knife slit a great wound in the exposed body. A wild yell rose above the clamor of the pack and the old wolf rolled over and over on the ice in the agonies of death, the blood spurting from the wound at every pump of its heart.
THEWOLFSPRANG ATHISTHROAT
THEWOLFSPRANG ATHISTHROAT
Instantly half the pack sprang upon the dying leader, every male desiring to be master, and all doubtless bearing upon their own bodies marks of the wounded beast’s displeasure. This change of front enabled Enoch to recover both his equilibrium and his presence of mind; and when the other beasts gathered courage to attack him in turn, he was ready to beat them off with his gun and to ably assist his companion in continuing the slaughter. The wolf he had first shot was attacked by its comrades, too, for at the smell and taste of blood the creatures showed all the characteristics of cannibals.
Nevertheless, Enoch and the man crouching at his feet, had all they could do to defend themselves from the charges of the remaining wolves. If the beasts sprang high the boy met them with long-arm swings of his rifle; if they fell short the axe or the knife flashed and the wolves limped away with savage howls, their blood dyeing the frozen surface of the creek. For yards about the besieged the ice soon had the appearance of a mighty strife and although he had only received a scratch or two himself, Enoch was well spattered with blood.
Hunger and the issue from their own veins drowned the natural cowardice of the canines. They charged blindly, and as fast as one went down beneath the blows of Enoch’s gun, or was seriously wounded by his companion, another wolf sprang to the attack. Three already lay dead on the ice, torn limb from limb by their comrades, and three others limped upon the outer edge of the circle, seriously wounded; but still the fierce brutes sprang at their prey, and sprang again!
Involuntarily Enoch shouted aloud at every blow he struck, but his companion maintained a desperate silence. The boy did not cry out because he expected any aid; yet assistance was within call. A figure came running over the ice from up stream and the sharp crack of a rifle announced the approach of Lot Breckenridge, who had come out to meet his friend. Another wolf rolled over in the throes of death, to be seized by its companions and torn to pieces with horrid cries. Lot came on with shouts of encouragement and together with Enoch laid about him with clubbed rifle until the remaining wolves, their cries now turned to yelps of fear, stampeded from the scene of the battle and sought safety in the forest, from the edge of which they howled their disappointment at their antagonists.
It was Lot who first regained his breath and spoke. “Zuckers! but that was a great fight,” he cried, hugging Enoch in his joy at finding him practically unhurt. “But you look as though you had been killin’ beeves, Nuck. And who’s this with you?” The individual in question rose stiffly to his feet with a significant “Umph!” “Why!” exclaimed Lot, “it’s an Injin–it’s Crow Wing! Where’d you pick him up, Nuck?”
Enoch was vastly astonished to see whom he had befriended. “I had no idea who it was,” he said. “How came you in this country, Crow Wing?”
The Indian, now grown to be a tall and magnificent looking warrior, was breathing heavily and had some difficulty in answering for a moment. He stood, too, on one foot, holding up his left one like a lamed stork. “Umph!” he grunted at last, “White boys in good time. Save Injin sure!” He gravely offered his hand first to Enoch and then to Lot. “Crow Wing lame. Hurt foot–break gun–wolves come howl, howl, howl! No can scare ’em; no can make fire; no can run good. Umph!”
“You’ll have to go to our camp,” said Enoch. “You can’t travel on that foot. You’ve sprained or broken it.”
Crow Wing nodded. He made no sign that the foot hurt him, excepting by holding it off the ice. “Some wolf pelts good,” he remarked, sententiously.
Lot had already turned away to examine the dead beasts. Only two skins were fit to be stripped from the carcasses and added to the pelts Enoch had brought from the traps. The two white boys quickly obtained these and then, with the Indian hobbling between them, and leaning on their shoulders, the trio made their way to camp through the moonlight, while the remaining wolves slunk back to the scene of the battle and devoured their dead comrades.
The natures of the white man and the red are so opposed that it was impossible from the beginning of our North American history that either should really understand the sentiments and desires of the other. In the eyes of the Indian the most stoical and repressive white man was little better than a garrulous old woman. The “Yenghese,” as the Indians called the English, were less criticised on this point than were the French; but the latter, being an imitative race, more easily adapted themselves to the manner and life of the red man, and therefore won his confidence if not his respect.
Crow Wing displayed neither astonishment at finding the two white boys here, nor pain at the serious accident which had overtaken him. And it would have been a waste of time to urge him to explain more fully his being in this neighborhood. When he was ready to speak he would do so, and long after Lot Breckenridge was asleep, rolled up in his blanket and with his feet to the fire which blazed at the opening of the hut, did Enoch wait for the story. Crow Wing waited until he had slowly smoked out the little brass-bowled pipe which he carried with tobacco in a pouch at his belt. This pouch of tobacco and another of parched Indian corn, were all the provisions the ordinary Indian carried when on the march. The forest must supply his larder from time to time as he had need; and if game was scarce the red man went uncomplainingly with empty stomach.
“Harding and Lot found much pelt?” he said, questioningly, waving his hand at the bales of furs in the back of the shelter.
“So-so. We can’t complain, Crow Wing. You were trapping, too?”
“Yonder,” replied the Indian, pointing to the west. “Crow Wing look at trap; wolves met him; wolves very hungry; make much mad when hungry. Umph!”
“And they attacked you right away?”
“Umph! Me shoot; then club gun. Hit tree first time; break gun; then run some more. Catch foot and fall; much hurt. That all.”
“Are you alone at your camp yonder?”
“Umph!” said the Indian, nodding affirmatively.
“You had better stay here till your foot’s well. I reckon that gun can be repaired, too. Only the stock is broken.”
The Indian’s eyes gleamed, showing that this statement pleased him vastly. Crow Wing’s “fire-tube” was his most precious possession. “Me thought no good,” he said.
“I know of a man in Bennington who can fix it,” declared Enoch. “Have you many pelts at your camp?”
On his fingers Crow Wing showed how many beaver skins, otter pelts, wolf hides, and other and less worthy furs, he had obtained. He also stated that he had three steel wolf traps and two beaver or otter traps which he had obtained from a farmer for whom he had worked.
“We can bring ’em all over here. Lot and I will go for them. You can’t get around on that foot much for several weeks. It’s bad. You ’tend camp and stretch pelts, while Lot and I look out for the traps. Then, when we go home, you take one third of the pelts.”
Crow Wing thought of this silently for a moment and then held out his hand with gravity. “Good! Crow Wing go to Bennington with Harding and Lot; sell pelts there and get gun fixed. Umph!”
Although Enoch had suggested this scheme upon his own responsibility he knew Lot would agree to it. Really, it was a good thing for all three. Crow Wing’s gun was useless, and his lame foot made traveling next to impossible for a while. But he could keep camp all right and look after the pelts. The traps the Indian had would be of much service to the white boys and would increase their own gains not a little. So upon this amicable basis the Indian joined the party and the next day Lot and Enoch, directed by Crow Wing, traveled to the Indian’s camp and packed back both the traps and the skins.
The boys learned that Crow Wing’s people now resided in New York colony, on the shores of Lake George, and that the young warrior had not been east of the Twenty-Mile Line since the raid of Simon Halpen upon the Widow Harding’s cabin. By patient questioning Enoch learned that Halpen had lived for months at a time with the tribe, but that he was not an adopted member of it, and was not altogether trusted by Crow Wing’s people.
“When burn cabin, old chief–my father–be told. Injins friends with Bennin’ton men; friends with York men, too. But Hawknose,” the Indian’s sobriquet for Simon Halpen, “sent away. He never come back.”
“You have hunted with him?” said Enoch, with some eagerness. “You were with him that day–you know–long ago; the day the Yorkers came up to James Breckenridge’s farm?”
Crow Wing made no reply for some time, gazing with gloomy eyes into the fire. Finally he said, speaking in an oracular manner, yet brokenly as he always did, for the English tongue was hard to him: “Jonas Harding not friend to Injin; Injin not friend to him. You friend to Crow Wing. You fight Crow Wing; fight ’um fair; when foot well we fight once more? Umph!”
Enoch laughed. “I’ll wrastle you any time you like, Crow Wing. But you can beat me running.”
The Indian, undisturbed, went on: “You not like father; you not speak Injin like he be slave-man; Injin free!” and he said it proudly, for the redskins looked down upon the negroes because they were the slaves of the colonists. “Hawknose no like Jonas Harding; he own your land; he buy it from Great Father of York and he buy it from Injin. All land Injin’s once,” he added, with a cloud upon his face. “Injin come with Hawknose to measure land; white man bring little thing to measure it; Jonas Harding throw Hawknose in creek and more white men beat him. White man, like Injin, feel he squaw when beat. Hawknose mad; tell Injin he kill Jonas Harding; drive you from land.”
“But father was killed by a buck in the forest,” said Enoch, carefully hiding the emotion he felt.
“Umph!” grunted Crow Wing, and would say nothing further at the time.
Lot, although he had been often a companion of the Indian when the latter lived near his uncle’s farm, looked upon him just as he did upon Sambo, Breckenridge’s slave boy. He had played with him, swam with him, learned to use the bow and arrow under Crow Wing’s instruction, and had gained something of forest lore from the Indian youth; but he had no respect for him, or for his peculiarities. He had not learned at ’Siah Bolderwood’s knee of the really admirable qualities of these people whom the whites were pleased to call “savages.” Lot made no objection to Crow Wing’s joining them, for his presence, and the use of his traps, was a very good thing for them. He patronized the Indian, however, and was not above suggesting that, as the redman was so ignorant, it would not really be necessary to divide the pelts in even thirds at the end of the season.
“The trader won’t give him but about so much for them, anyway, no matter how many he offers,” he said to Enoch. “You know how it is with them. Injins can’t count and the traders fool ’em and cheat ’em. We’d better take some of his ourselves and so get some good out of them.”
“That isn’t honest, Lot!” cried Enoch, hotly.
“Huh! it’s honest enough. We won’t be cheating the Injin, for they’ll do him no good. And there’s no use in the traders makin’ so much on him.”
“Then we’ll go with him and see that the traders treat him honestly,” declared young Harding.
“Zuckers!” exclaimed the careless Lot. “Catch me putting myself out that way for a redskin.”
“You’re glad enough to use his traps, Lot!” cried Enoch. And the two old friends came very near having a falling out over the matter. Lot simply followed the example of the older settlers whom he knew. It was no particular sin to cheat an Indian. They were too much like children to look out for themselves in a bargain, anyway.
But as week followed week, Crow Wing’s manner toward Enoch Harding showed that he had adopted him, Indian fashion, as “brother.” Not that the red youth displayed any affection; that was beneath a brave. But he appreciated Enoch’s respectful treatment of him. Crow Wing treasured this in his mind and, when the spring came, and they packed their bales of furs by canoe and hand-sled to Bennington, and Enoch took pains to make the traders pay the Indian quite as liberally as they did Lot and himself for his furs, his gratitude blossomed in its fulness.
Lot went home to see his mother; but Enoch took Crow Wing to the Harding house with him and gave him an old canoe in which the red youth could make his way by water and portage to his home on the shores of Lake George. Crow Wing did not go near the house when Enoch met his mother and the younger Hardings after his long absence; but he sat down to dinner with them and if he used his fingers oftener than his hunting knife to prepare his food it was not remarked, for forks were not always used by the settlers themselves at that day. His gravity awed the younger children, while Bryce admired his proportions openly. The Indian youth was certainly a magnificently built fellow.
Before he went away he sat beside the creek and silently smoked a farewell pipe while his white friend waited for his last words. Enoch believed Crow Wing had something to tell him regarding Simon Halpen and that the time for speech had come; but knowing his nature the white youth had not tried to hurry this confidence.
“Hawknose come here once more–what you do?” Crow Wing asked, when the pipe was finished.
“Simon Halpen is my enemy. If you have an enemy what do you do?” returned Enoch, with some emotion.
The Indian nodded. “Hawknose, Jonas Harding’s enemy. No deer kill Jonas Harding. Hawknose yonder then,” and he waved his hand toward the deer-lick at which the dead settler had been found three years before.
“How does Crow Wing know that?” queried the white boy, eagerly.
“Crow Wing there, too.”
“You saw him—” began Enoch, but the Indian cut him short with an emphatic “Umph! No see. Hear shot. Shot kill doe. Jonas Harding kill doe. Gun empty.”
“Yes, we found the gun and the dead doe. And there were marks of a big buck all about the place and father–was dead.”
“Hawknose there,” said the Indian, gravely. “Crow Wing see him–running. Pass him–so,” with a gesture which led Enoch to believe that the running Halpen had crossed the Indian’s path within a few feet. “He no see Crow Wing. He run fast–look back over shoulder. And blood–blood on shirt–blood on hands–blood on gun! Go wash ’em in river. Then run more.”
“You saw him running away from the lick?” gasped Enoch. “But there were no footprints but father’s near the place. Only the hoof prints of the big buck.”
“Umph! Crow Wing no see big deer; no hear ’um. But see Hawknose run,” said the Indian significantly.
“But I can’t understand how Halpen could have killed him, Crow Wing. He did not shoot him, and if he had been near enough to strike father down, why did his moccasins leave no mark?”
The Indian rose gravely. “Some time we see. Crow Wing come back here. Harding go with him to deer-lick. Look, look–find out, mebbe.”
“But after three years how can anything be found?” demanded Enoch, in despair.
“Will see,” returned Crow Wing, and, without further word, entered the canoe and pushed out into the river. Nor did he turn about to look at the white youth once while the canoe was in sight. But he left Enoch Harding stirred to his depths by the brief and significant conversation. The youth did not understand how Simon Halpen could have compassed his father’s death; yet Crow Wing evidently suspected something which he had not seen fit to divulge.
Enoch scarce knew Bryce after his winter’s absence. The younger boy had felt the responsibility of his position as head of the family pro tem and although he had lost none of his cheeriness and love of action, he had gained some cautiousness. His care for little Henry and the girls was delightful and Mrs. Harding was undoubtedly proud of him. Although kept at home almost continually by his duties, Bryce had been able to trap enough beavers to buy the rifle which he had long wanted and on the first training day after the roads dried up in the spring, he went with Enoch to Bennington and was enrolled in Captain Baker’s company.
And during this year of ’74 the train bands became of more importance than ever before. While in Boston and in other cities of the colonies, meetings were held in secret and companies of minute men were drilled by stealth, here in the Grants the Whigs trained openly, and the reason for it was known, too. The course of the foolish King and his ministers was widening the breach between the mother country and the American colonies until, when the Continental Congress met on September 5th of this year, royal authority was suspended almost everywhere but in the New York Colony. Within its confines were the strongest and most influential Tories, while the Dutch, who made up a goodly share of the population, although becoming good patriots in the end and warmly supporting the struggling nation which was born of that Congress, were phlegmatic of nature and slow to rouse.
During these months so pregnant with coming trouble, the controversy between the land jobbers and the Grants waned but little. The Yorkers had received so many sharp lessons, however, that they were careful to attack no settlers who were within reach of assistance from any body of Green Mountain Boys. And as Allen, Warner, and Cochran had many “hide-outs” in the hills, where they kept munitions of war and to which they summoned their followers by means which actually seemed to savor of the Black Art to their enemies, it was difficult for the Yorkers to know where it was really safe to carry on their attacks against the peaceful grantees. Being “viewed” became a most serious matter indeed, and many a luckless surveyor or other underling of the sheriff of Albany, carried the blue-seal of the Green Mountain Boys upon his person for months after an unexpected meeting with those rangers of the forest.
But the Yorkers kept away from Benningford and the surrounding district. More farms had been taken up there by Hampshire grantees than in other parts of the disputed ground and the reign of the Green Mountain Boys was supreme. The Hardings had been very happy since the building of the new house, and, as there had been a school established in the vicinity, the girls and Harry attended for six months in the year. Kate had grown to be a tall girl and looked like her mother, while Mary and Harry were becoming of considerable use outside of, as well as in, the house.
Enoch and Bryce cleared a piece of woodland that year and late in the fall there was another stump-burning. ’Siah Bolderwood came down from his “farm” near Old Ti to join in the festivities; but several of the young people who had attended the stump-burning three years before were not present. Robbie Baker was up north with his father, and Lot Breckenridge had moved away from the vicinity of Bennington; Crow Wing did not come to try his skill at wrestling with Enoch, so the latter sat by with ’Siah as one of the judges, for he was older than the other contestants. Lot’s mother had married a man named Lewis who owned and worked a farm much nearer the Connecticut River, in the town of Westminster, and after his return from their winter’s trapping the spring before, Lot had gone across the mountains to work for his stepfather.
Lot had always been his dearest friend and Enoch missed him sorely, and as he could not go trapping with him this winter, he agreed to visit Westminster for a fortnight or so, some time during the idle months. It was March when he started to cross the range and although the roads were still full of snow, he went horseback. A sleigh was a luxury that few Bennington people owned, although Nuck might have hitched the old wood-sled to Dobbin. He spent one night at a farmer’s on the road, and was welcomed at supper time the next evening at the Lewis house.
“Zuckers!” exclaimed Lot, running out to drag his friend off his horse, “I tell ye, I’m glad to see ye! And so’ll marm be–if the young uns don’t bother her too much. There’s three Lewis young uns, too, besides the baby, and I tell ye, they’re a wild lot. I’d rayther tackle them wolves that you’n Crow Wing got mixed up with last winter. Seen the Injin since?”
“Not since I sent him home with more money than he had ever seen before in his life,” replied Enoch.
“Very foolish of you! We might have had some of his pelts just as well’s not.”
“You don’t mean that, Lot,” said Enoch, who knew that young Breckenridge talked a deal more recklessly than he really felt.
“Well, never mind all that,” said Lot. “Tell me the news. What’s goin’ on ’tother side the mountings? Did ye know that lots more red-coats had come to Boston? And they say–leastways, a pedlar that come through here told us so last week–that the Boston folks have got a lot of guns and ammunition stored in the country towns and the minute men are drilling day and night. Do you s’pose there’ll be war there, Nuck?”
“If the Massachusetts people feel like we do here in the Grants, there’ll be fighting,” said Enoch, his eyes flashing. “What d’you suppose would happen if troops were quartered on us?”
“I’m goin’ to Boston if there’s a fight,” declared his friend. “Mr. Lewis says I can. He’s a nice man–marm’s second husband–and he’s strong for the Grants, too. He’s got a Hampshire title. But there’s lots of Tories around here. The court’s goin’ to sit next week an’ there’ll be trouble then, mark my word. Lots of the cases these Tories have hatched up against our people are goin’ to be tried, an’ the Whigs ain’t goin’ to stand it. Judge Chandler ain’t so bad a man; but Judge Sabin and the others are dead set ag’in all our folks. They say the sheriff has sworn in a big lot of deperties. Mebbe you’ll see some fun before you go back to Bennington, Nuck.”
As Lot’s idea of “fun” was pretty sure to be a scrimmage of some kind, it can be easily seen how strained the relations were then between the Whigs and the Tory court of the district. Whereas Tories and Whigs had lived at peace before, now they became bitter in controversy and even families were divided upon the questions of the hour.
Enoch found Lot’s stepfather to be a very quiet, pleasant man, who made it a point to be at harmony with all his neighbors, yet whose personal feelings and opinions as a Whig were well known. Lot delighted in being where the older men of the community discussed the trend of public affairs and it was due to him that Enoch, the second night after his arrival, gained some little notoriety in Westminster by an encounter he had at the Royal Inn, kept by one John Norton.
The tap-room and parlors of the inn were occupied every evening at this time by the men of Westminster, and by certain visitors who had, for some days, been gathering for the meeting of the General Court. And all these visitors were not attorneys, or plaintiffs and defendants in the several cases which would come up for hearing before their Worships the justices. The sheriff was already at Westminster and there were more armed men about the town than had ever been seen there before at one time. Until the closing hour earnest discussions were carried on in the inn, for although the Royal, or “Norton’s house” as it was called, was the headquarters of the Tories, many Whigs frequented it, too. Naturally, the young men and half-grown boys wished to listen on the outskirts of these groups, and Lot Breckenridge was desirous of hearing all that went on. Enoch went with him to the inn rather against his will. Mistress Harding did not approve of such places for youths and Enoch had not grown so old or so big as to wish to disobey his mother, or even to believe that she was less able to guide him than she had formerly been.
The inn was well filled, indeed, that night and Master Norton was bustling about from group to group, dropping a word here and another there, determined to keep all his guests pleased as maybe; for despite his Tory principles, the innkeeper was first for his own pocket and would not antagonize any man knowingly. Mine Host was particularly attentive to a party of ten or a dozen gentlemen who, having eaten, now sat grouped before one of the fires engaged in earnest, and somewhat noisy, conversation. The figure of the sheriff was the centre of this group.
Lot and Enoch stood with other young men within ear-shot and heard many remarks which plainly showed the affiliation of the sheriff and his friends to the Tory cause; and the party had dined so well that they were not particularly careful to modulate their voices so that others in the vicinity who might be of a different mind, should not overhear them. The sheriff was a pompous man who, when he spoke, commanded the attention of all about him. The dignity of his office rode him hard and his companions deferred to him almost servilely, for at that day such an officer was held in great reverence, especially by the King’s adherents.
“These malcontents who would question the right of the King to govern them, should be punished, every man Jack of them!” the sheriff declared, looking about fiercely at his auditors. “I care not who they are, nor how high they stand. That Dr. Warren and Mr. Otis of Boston are gentlemen of education and position I grant ye; but they should feel the heavy hand of the law nevertheless–yes, sir! And some of these fellows who have gone to Philadelphia and are making such a rumpus there–they should be taught their place!”
“That they should, Master Sheriff!” cried one of his supporters.
“The King’s men treated that Otis just right some months back,” growled another–a man who sat back in the shadow of the high mantel and wore a cloak, the high collar of which half muffled his face. At the speech of this one Enoch, who had been dragging at the sleeve of his companion to get him away, ceased this and pushed forward himself. Something in the tone of the last speaker’s voice had attracted his attention and he strove to see his features.
“They should be whipped–every man Jack of them!” cried the sheriff, repeating his favorite expression.
“Better let Ethan Allen and his boys beech-seal them, eh, Sir Sheriff?” cried some Whig on the outskirts of the group, and a laugh was raised among those of like feeling.
“We shall settle that villain Allen–we shall settle him, sir!” declared the sheriff, angrily. “The Honorable Court will punish these fellows who retain their lands without proper authority from the King and our Governor. There will be an overturn in these Grants ere long–mark my word, sir!”
“The dogs should be driven back to Massachusetts and Connecticut–where they came from,” growled the man with the cloak.
“That’s true!” exclaimed several of the group.
“Aye, and the time approaches when it may be done,” cried the sheriff.
“But what think you Ethan Allen, Seth Warner, ’Member, and the rest of the boys will be doing, Sir Sheriff?” demanded the same Whig who had before spoken.
“They’ll be clapped into Albany jail–that’s what will become of them!” declared the sheriff.
“And a right good place for them,” said he of the cloak. Enoch was still maneuvring to get a sight of this man, but the shadow of the high mantel was cast across his face. All the boy could see was the gleam of his eyes as he turned with an angry gesture toward the audience. “The boldness of these outlaws is astonishing.”
“That Allen appears to have many followers,” suggested a mild mannered man beside the sheriff.
“He is a bully; they fear him!” declared the former speaker, vigorously.
“How is that, John Norton?” cried the Whig, who evidently was a bold man to so flout the sheriff and his friends. “You know Colonel Allen personally. Should you call him a bully and say that he governs men by fear?”
“Not I!” exclaimed the innkeeper. “And saving your presence, sheriff, it would be a man of some stomach who would dare say that to Ethan Allen’s face. As for these same Green Mountain Boys, it is not fear that keeps them together.”
“I tell you they are a set of masterless villains!” cried the dark man, turning angrily about so that at last the collar of his cloak fell back. “They should be driven out of the colony and their houses burned to the ground—”
Suddenly he stopped. His harsh voice died to a whisper and his astonished companions looked at him in amazement. For a moment he seemed to have been frozen in his chair, and their eyes following his glance fell upon the white and angry face of Enoch Harding who had pushed through the ring of listeners. “And it is you who would set the torch to their homes!” exclaimed the youth, his voice shaking. “You already have one count of the kind against you, and if you ever come to Bennington again there’ll be more than a beech-sealing awaiting you–you villain!”
Some of the crew sprang up in astonishment, and some in anger. “Who is that bold rascal, landlord?” demanded the sheriff. “Bring him here.”
But Lot had fairly dragged the angry Enoch to the door and now pushed him out of the inn. “What’s the matter with you, Nuck?” he demanded. “D’you want to get us all into trouble?”
“That’s Simon Halpen!” exclaimed Enoch, panting with excitement. “I’d have flown at his throat in another moment.”
“Zuckers!” exclaimed Lot. “The feller that burned down your marm’s house? Don’t blame ye for bein’ mad. But ye don’t wanter stir up a fuss here. Our game is ter lay low and let the Tories start the row if they’re minded to. You’ll see. Mr. Lewis an’ some others is goin’ to see the judges to-morrow an’ try to keep the court from sittin’. They’ll sure be trouble if the Tories bring our people before the court. We can’t git no fair trial, so we won’t be tried at all.”