Chapter IX: The Governor in Council

Where Garden Street[1] crosses the Broad-Way I met the town bellringer brandishing his bell.

[1] Now Exchange Place.

"'Tis Friday afternoon of the week," he bellowed, "and all householders shall take notice they must collect their refuse and offal and dump the same in the river or the swamps beyond the city limits. And they are to sweep the streets before their shops and dwellings and destroy or remove the sweepings after the same fashion. Proclaimed by order of the worshipful mayor and aldermen."

He was beginning his oration all over again, when I approached him with a request for the location of Captain van Horne's house.

"Do you but follow your nose straight before you," he directed me, "until you come to the red-brick mansion with the yellow-brick walk this side of the Green Lane.[2] That is his."

[2] Now Maiden Lane.

Except for the walk he had specified, the house the bell-ringer described had nothing about it to distinguish it from those adjacent, and I could not forbear a smile at thought of the different degrees of magnificence which were deemed necessary by the potentates of the Old World and the New.

The negro servant who answered my knock admitted that the governor was within.

"But Massa Burnet done hab de gen'lemen ob de Council wid him jus' now, sah," he added doubtfully.

"I am this minute landed with letters for the governor from London," I said.

"Oh, bery well, sah. Dat be a dif'runt matter. Yo' come dis way, please. Massa Burnet be plumb glad to see yo'. Dis way, please."

He ushered me into the wide hallway which ran from front to rear of the house, and knocked on the door of the first room on the right.

"Enter," roared a jovial bass voice.

The negro threw open a leaf of the door and stood aside.

"Dis gen'lemun done jus' lan' f'om London wif letters fo' yo' Exluncy," he announced.

I saw before me a group of eight men gathered around a dinner-table, which was spread with maps and papers in place of eatables. At the head sat the man of the bass voice, ruddy-faced, comfortable in girth, with the high forehead of the thinker and the square jaw of the man of action.

"I am Governor Burnet, sir," he said. "Who are you?"

"These letters will explain, your Excellency," I replied, not caring to reveal my identity before so many persons.

I tendered them to him.

"Hah, from Master Juggins!" he exclaimed with heightened interest. "You sailed on the New Venture?"

"Yes, your Excellency--with Master Murray."

"That is well. Be seated, sir; be seated," ordered the governor as he slit the packet.

I found a chair by the fireplace, and watched in silence whilst he read through the close-writ pages, with an occasional word or interjection to the others, who had risen from their places and were clustered about him. They were, as I afterward learned, the most prominent men of the governor's faction in the province, who strove to uphold his authority and aid him in his effort to clinch the control of the fur-trade in English hands--Abraham van Horne, the governor's father-in-law; James Alexander, Robert Walter, Rip van Dam, a cousin to my friend, the proprietor of the George; John Barberie, Francis Harrison and Cadwalader Colden, the surveyor-general, he who later writ "The History of the Five Indian Nations," and who made himself remarkably acquainted with the history of provincial relations with the savages.

"So! Humph!"

The governor laid down the covering letter which accompanied the detailed report of the operations of Murray in London.

"You are Master----"

He examined the letter again.

"Humph! Yes."

His keen eyes deliberately scanned my face.

"I see. Better----"

He turned from me to his councilors.

"It is apparent from what Master Juggins has writ that Murray has triumphed, gentlemen, even if not so absolutely as he would have our citizens believe. However, we know the worst, and we may prepare for it. If I may have your indulgence, I would crave an adjournment of our meeting to enable me to discuss some aspects of the situation more intimately with Master Juggins' messenger."

There was a murmur of assent, followed by a scraping of chairs and fluttering of papers as the meeting broke up.

"One moment, your Excellency," I interposed. "I have also a letter from Master Juggins for the Honorable Cadwalader Colden of your Council--if he is here."

"Indeed, he is," assented the governor. "A moment, if you please, Colden."

A thin, bustling man, with very bright black eyes and a dark complexion, who had been sitting at the governor's right hand, detached himself from the exodus and resumed his chair. His nervous fingers quickly tore loose the envelope of the letter I handed him, and he began devouring its contents, regardless of the confusion around him.

"Until tomorrow, gentlemen!"

The governor bowed the Council out, and shut the door upon the last of them. He beckoned me forward.

"Sit here beside us, Master Ormerod--for so I see you are rightly named, although you traveled under Master Juggins' name. Master Juggins vouches for you. That is sufficient for me. What say you, Colden?"

"Quite sufficient," agreed the surveyor-general. "Do you wish me to remain, sir?"

"Certainly. Glad to have you. This is no matter to be manhandled by the whole Council; but zooks, a man must have advice now and then, whether he takes it or not! Now, Master Ormerod, do you tell us as fully as you may what you know of Murray.

"Begin at the beginning. Spare nothing. Tell us how you yourself came into this.

"Master Juggins hath slated you for a prominent part. I respect his judgment, but more than our immediate fortune hinges upon the issue of what we do, and I must know all."

The while he was talking he walked to the fireplace, selected a clay pipe, walked back to his chair, crammed the pipe with tobacco and cracked flint and steel to a slow-match of wadding, with which he lighted it. Colden sat low down in his chair, finger-tips joined, drinking in everything which was said. He was like a vigilant terrier in his watchful eagerness.

I recounted the circumstances of my meeting with Juggins, the hearing before the Lords of Trade and the incidents of the voyage, not forgetting Tom's assault upon me and the strange bargain I had made with Murray.

"Then are you safe from denunciation," broke in the governor. "We think little of Hanoverian or Jacobite in New York. Here, Master Ormerod, you will find only Englishmen laboring to wrest a living from the wilderness and to extend their country's power and richness. What you were matters little. 'Tis what you are we judge you by.

"The bargain was typical of Murray. He is no ordinary villain. Already he hath persuaded the discontented elements in the province that I would take the bread from their mouths by stopping his trade. But he knows well that I would leap upon the excuse to lay him by the heels, and he will see to it that no suspicion of your past escapes."

"He threatened me with the Red Death this morning," I said. "Can you tell me what he meant by it?"

The governor and Colden exchanged significant glances.

"Bolling hath been in the town this week past," remarked the latter.

"I saw him on my way here," I said. "Ah, then, 'tis----"

"'Tis a saying of the frontier," explained the governor. "They call this red-headed Bolling and Murray's negro, Tom, the Red and the Black Deaths, for Murray is charged with having used them to remove from his path those persons he considers dangerous or whom he honors with his dislike."

"In the crowd attending Murray I also heard talk of the Doom Trail," I continued.

Governor Burnet smiled grimly.

"That is the popular name for the route by which Murray smuggles his trade-goods to Canada."

"But why the name, your Excellency?"

"Because 'tis said to be the sealing of a man's doom if he seeks the trail or any information concerning it. Is not that the story, Colden?"

"'Tis a story which hath more than legend to substantiate it," agreed the surveyor-general.

"Has the traffic been suspended during Murray's absence?" I asked.

"No," replied the governor. "Bolling and Black Robe have kept it in motion."

"And who is Black Robe?"

The governor laughed outright.

"You are red-hot for dangerous information, Master Ormerod. Black Robe is the Indian's name for one Père Hyacinthe, a Jesuit missionary, who, according to some of the tales our agents bring, shares with Murray the credit for conception of the conspiracy we are debating.

"But where Murray plots for the overthrow of English rule in America in order to bring back the Jacobites and enrich himself, Black Robe's ambition is to establish France as the supreme temporal power in the world and to extend the influence of the Pope by making his religion universal on this continent as it is in South America."

"Sometimes I almost doubted the plot could be so formidable as Juggins claimed," I said; "but----"

"Master Ormerod," returned the governor earnestly, "it is the most formidable blow which ever was aimed at us. It is formidable because it is based on a clever idea, upon a sound conception of the economic situation, and because it is prepared in secret and those who should be alive to the alarms we have sounded not only refuse to heed us, but would stop our mouths, so that we may not any more annoy them.

"Today, thanks to the law I had passed, which the Lords of Trade have now suspended, trade-goods in Montreal cost twice what they do at Albany. And this, mind you, despite the secret trade which Murray plies. Without that aid the French would never be able to meet our competition."

"Where do Black Robe and Murray make their headquarters?" I inquired.

"Murray spends part of his time here in New York or in Albany, but most of the year he is absent. He says he is on trading-expeditions--and we may not disprove it. But we think he stays at a station which is said to form a depot for the stores smuggled over the Doom Trail. Black Robe is reported to have a chapel there."

"'Tis called La Vierge du Bois," added Colden.

"And where is it!"

"If I knew, I should order a levy of the militia and burn it down at risk of my head," retorted the governor.

"But you must have some idea where it is?" I pressed incredulously.

Governor Burnet put down his pipe and unrolled a large scroll map which lay amongst the papers on the table.

"You forget that you have left the Old World of limited spaces behind you," he replied. "This province over which I rule is greater than all Britain--how much greater not even our surveyor-general, who knows more than any other man, can say."

He spread the map before me, and I gazed with fascination at the courses of unknown rivers, chains of untraversed mountains, broad savannas the foot of the white man had seldom trod, lakes like seas and immense blank spaces without even a mark upon them to denote their character.

"This is New York, Master Ormerod. Our settlements are confined to the coast districts, the island of Nassau[3]--" he motioned toward the window--"and the valley of Hudson's River. We have barely begun the task of colonization. There is room here for every soul in England--and to spare."

[3] Long Island.

With his pipe-stem he pointed to the upper left corner.

"All this country is virgin forest. On the north and northwest 'tis bounded by the inland sea which we call Lake Cadaraqui;[4] to the southeast stretch the Adirondack Mountains. Somewhere between those boundaries runs the Doom Trail. There are thousands of square miles of wilderness to search for it."

[4] Lake Ontario.

"And the Keepers of the Trail to guard its mystery," put in Colden.

"Who are they?" I questioned, as anxious as a small boy for further details.

"The _Ho-nun-ne-gwen-ne-yuh_," he repeated. "So far as we know, Master Ormerod--and we know only what our agents have been able to learn at second and third hand--they are bands of mercenaries, Cahnuagas, Adirondacks and Shawendadies, all renegades of the Iroquois, who are retained by Murray to protect the Trail.

"They roam that belt of forest you saw depicted on the map, and 'tis death for them to find any man, white or red, within it, save he bears Murray's sign manual. The Indians are a superstitious people, and they have come to believe that there is some supernatural agency behind the Keepers of the Trail. In plain English, they fear the Trail is haunted."

"By what?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"You would have to make a more profound study of their folk-lore than I have been able to in order to comprehend the precise gist of their belief. But they tell us that the False Faces, a race of demons from the underworld, to whom Murray has sold his soul, have rallied to his aid."

"Ridiculous!" I exclaimed.

"No doubt," assented the surveyor-general; "but the superstition is a factor in the problem."

"At every turn we run against the shrewdness and wit of this fellow Murray," exploded the governor. "'Tis at once a tribute to his ability, and perhaps an index to our inferiority, that we have never been able to secure certain information of his operations."

"'Tis evident, your Excellency," I ventured, "that the Lords of Trade will accept only positive evidence that he hath evaded the law."

"That means legal proof of smuggling," reflected the governor.

"And now that the Lords of Trade have suspended our law, his operations are no longer illegal, strictly speaking," said Colden. "But I make no doubt he will continue to handle the bulk of his goods over the Doom Trail, for he will not care to have his dupes in the province realize the enormous tribute they pay to France through him."

"The suspension of the law may well be permanent," I suggested. "'Twas Master Juggins' conviction that Murray would scatter bribes right and left, at home and in London, to win his point. And he hath the French Treasury to draw upon."

Governor Burnet brought his fist down upon the table with a thud.

"Gadslife!" he swore. "There is naught for it but war! We must be after the dog! We must run him down! He hath Government at his orders. If he continues much longer as he doth today he may secure a petition to his majesty for my recall."

He sank back in his chair and stared reflectively at the map which was still spread out between us.

"It shall be done, gentlemen," he said more quietly after an interval of several minutes. "But we must move unofficially. What say you, Colden!"

"We can do nothing with official support," rejoined the surveyor-general, "and 'tis probable we shall receive the instructions of the Lords of Trade to suspend the law by the next Bristol packet."

"There can be no question of that," agreed the governor. "Well, the law shall be suspended. I will have the suspension publicly proclaimed. We will affect to mourn deeply over it. Aye, that is the course to pursue. Murray will grow bolder with his success, and we must put him off his guard."

He turned the pages of Juggins' letter.

"Then under cover we must concert the measures to be taken. That will be for Master Ormerod. Do you still crave the opportunity, knowing now the full measure of its perils, sir!"

"I am more anxious, if possible, sir," I answered. "Master Juggins was good enough to think I had the qualities for the venture. As you will have read, I have spent some years at Versailles and St. Germain. I speak French sufficiently well to pass on the frontier for a Frenchman. As for danger--why, your Excellency, the man who has ruined his life can have no fear for it. He has all to gain and nothing to lose."

"True," assented the governor. "But you know nothing of woodcraft or the life amongst the savages."

"Master Juggins gave me a letter to one Peter Corlaer, a----"

Colden sat suddenly erect.

"Corlaer is now in the kitchen!" he exclaimed.

He turned to the governor.

"Peter came this morning with the Seneca chief, if your Excellency will remember."

"So he did. We will have him in."

Colden went out, and returned at once with two companions. One I recognized, to my amazement, as the Indian I had befriended an hour or two earlier. He greeted me with a faint smile. To the governor he rendered the splendid arm-high salute, and his deep voice boomed out--

"_Qua, Ga-en-gwa-ra-go!_"[5]

[5] "Hail, Great Swift Arrow"--the Indians' name for the Governor of New York, whoever he might be.

The other man was more like a tavern-keeper than a woodsman. Of a naturally large stature, he looked even larger than he was by reason of the fleshiness of his hogshead of a body.

At first glance he seemed all paunch, but when you studied him closely you saw that his fat was firm and hard and formed a sheathing for the most powerful set of muscles any man ever had. His face was tremendous, with little, insignificant features; but his eyes, behind the rolls of fat which almost masked them, twinkled with constant interest and animation, belying the air of stolid stupidity he affected.

"This is Corlaer, Master Ormerod," said the governor. "And with him is come a friend of ours, one of the two war-chiefs of the Six Nations. Peter, Master Ormerod hath a letter for you from Master Juggins in London."

"_Ja_," he said vacantly.

I handed him the letter. He turned it over and over in his hand and picked at the seal. Then he handed it to the Indian.

"You read idt," he said.