Chapter XII: Into the Wilderness

"Bolling hath disappeared," said Governor Burnet. "You will not see him again, save it be in the dining-room of Captain van Horne's house where the governor worked pending the refurbishing of his official residence within the walls of the Fort.

"I have given orders to all officers of troops and town officials that he is to be detained if he ventures to appear," he continued; "but the knave--or, I should say his master--is too wise. By the way, an express arrived from Fort Orange[1] last night and reported having spoken Murray's party in the Tappan Zee. He will be a good three days ahead of you, 'twould seem."

[1] Albany.

"I am not sorry," I answered. "Have you any further instructions for me, sir?"

"Aye. Are you ready to sail?"

"Corlaer just now told me all our gear was aboard the sloop. Ta-wan-ne-ars is watching it."

The governor unfolded the map of the wilderness country which he had exhibited to me during my first visit.

"Above everything else, I must know what is happening at Jagara," he said. "The Doom Trail may wait. The news which Ta-wan-ne-ars brought of the intent of the French to replace Joncaire's trading-post with a stone fort is the most menacing tidings we have had since the peace was signed. It makes manifest what I have always contended: that there can be no real peace whilst we and the French sit cheek by jowl, each striving for more power than the other.

"Peace on paper there may be; but the French will be breaking it, as they have done in the case of Joncaire's post and as they now plan to do by building a fort upon English territory. I must know what they do there, Master Ormerod. I must know beyond a doubt. I can not afford to accept merely the hearsay evidence of the Indians. I must have a man I can trust who will see for himself on the spot."

"Surely, Corlaer----"

The governor brushed away my suggestion.

"Corlaer can not speak French. Moreover, if he could, his face is known along the whole frontier. He and Joncaire are old opponents. No; if he ventured to the post without safe-conduct he would disappear. If he went with a safe-conduct he would see nothing. 'Tis you who must go.

"Masquerade as a Frenchman. There are plenty of lads who go out every year to Canada to have a try at the fur-trade. You should be able to pass for one of them. At any rate 'tis worth the attempt."

"'Tis well worth trying," I agreed. "Also, 'tis possible I may pick up some news of the Trail from Joncaire."

"Possible," he assented; "but keep the Trail in the back of your mind. 'Tis this fort which concerns me now. For look you, Master Ormerod, if I secure proof the French meditate in earnest so grave a breach of the treaty 'twill strengthen by so much my case against Murray. Then might I dare indeed to stir the Iroquois to hostilities against him, as Peter suggested."

"I will do what I may," I promised, rising.

"'Tis well. And be not reluctant to accept advice from Corlaer and the Indians. They are schooled in the forest's craft. Here, too, is a letter to Master Livingston, the Mayor of Fort Orange, and Peter Schuyler, a gentleman of that place who acts upon occasion as my deputy in frontier affairs. You may talk freely with them concerning your mission. Good-by, sir, and be vigilant."

He gave me a hearty clasp of the hand and bowed me out.

In the street Corlaer awaited me.

"Der tide is flooding," he said, and without another word set off at a good round pace.

We came presently to a wharf at the foot of Deye Street, where lay the sloop _Betsy_, her sails unstopped, land-lines slack. She cast off as we stepped aboard, and presently I was looking back over her stern at the dwindling skyline of the quaint little city. As I looked I recognized the masts of the _New Venture_ amongst the shipping in the East River anchorage, and a pang smote me with the realization that she was my last tie with the England which would have none of me and for which I hungered with the perverse appetite of one who is denied his greatest wish.

The masts and their tracery of rigging soon merged in the blue of the afternoon sky; the woods closed down around the scattered buildings of the Out Ward; and we sailed a broad channel which ran between lofty heights of land, reaching hundreds of feet above us like the walls of some gigantic city of the future, fairer and more stupendous than the mind of man had ever dreamed on.

All that afternoon we sailed with a quartering wind, but in the night it shifted and we were compelled to anchor. In the morning we proceeded, but our progress was slow, and with darkness we must anchor again. So likewise on the next day a storm beat down upon us from the hulking mountains which rimmed the wide expanse of the river called by the old Dutch settlers the Tappan Zee; and with only a rag of sail we sped for shelter under the lee of an island.

On the fourth day the river bore us through a country of low, rolling hills and plains that lifted to mountainous heights in the distance. There were farms by the water's edge, and sometimes the imposing mansion of a patroon with its attendant groups of buildings occupied by servants, slaves and tenants. Several times we passed villages, and occasionally a sloop similar to our own hailed us and exchanged the latest news of the river.

On the fifth day toward sunset we sighted in the distance the stockades of Fort Orange, which the English were beginning to call Albany, nestling close to the river-bank under the shelter of a steep hillock. We made the tottery pier after darkness had fallen, and hastened up into the town, delegating to the master of the sloop and his boy the task of conveying our baggage to the tavern kept by Humphrey Taylor.

Corlaer and I left Ta-wan-ne-ars at the tavern to receive the baggage, whilst we called upon Mayor Livingston. He was preparing for his bed, but on my sending up word by the slave that I carried a letter from the governor he tucked his shirt into his breeches and came down to us. From him we learned that Murray had spent but twenty-four hours in the town and was gone two days since.

"Did he say where?" I inquired curiously.

Master Livingston chuckled.

"He caused to be circulated that he was going upon a round of his 'trading-stations' to correct some slackness which had developed during his absence. 'Tis his usual excuse when he disappears."

"He was not alone?"

"No. He was accompanied by a Frenchman and that scoundrel, Tom, as well as by some misguided young female."

"She was his daughter," I said.

"So he said, I believe," agreed Master Livingston negligently.

"But I am sure she is," I insisted. "There can be no doubt----"

"Then I am vastly sorry for her lot," he replied good-humoredly.

"Which way didt he go?" asked Corlaer.

"The usual way. He followed the Iroquois Trail to the Mohawk, then struck north. We have followed him so far many times; but always when our scouts have pressed the pursuit they have encountered strange bands of warriors who have killed or captured them or driven them away."

"Did you see aught of the Frenchman?" I struck in.

"Yes; he did me the honor of calling upon me, and said he was on a mission from his King to report upon the conduct of the Government of Canada, especially with a view to the maintenance of good relations with our colonists."

"The hypocrite!" I interjected.

"He was smooth of tongue, I grant you," admitted Master Livingston. "He had the grace to acquaint me he was taking advantage of Master Murray's company to secure protection through the frontier."

"Didt Murray hafe many men?" put in Corlaer.

"Half a dozen whites of Bolling's kind, and as many nondescript Indians who were painted like Mohicans."

"They wouldt be Cahnuagas," amended Corlaer.

"Yes," assented the Mayor; "but if you are to go to Jagara, as the governor's letter advises me, you need not concern yourself with Murray at this time. What do you propose to do?"

"We have discussed the journey on the voyage up the river," I replied; "and we are agreed 'tis best that we go first to the Seneca country, where Ta-wan-ne-ars can pick up the latest news. There we can concert our plan in detail and decide how best I am to be able to gain Joncaire's confidence."

"You are wise to be cautious," said Livingston. "Joncaire is no easy man to fool. Believe me, sir, he is the ablest officer the French have, and a bitter thorn in our side."

"_Ja!_" exclaimed Corlaer with unaccustomed vigor.

"Peter knows," laughed the Mayor. "Eh, Peter?"

Corlaer's reply was indecently explicit in its description of Joncaire.

"Peter once prepared a clever trap for Joncaire," continued Master Livingston, seeing I did not understand my companion's rage. "He was to be captured whilst he feasted with some friends amongst the Senecas. But Joncaire got wind of it, and instead 'twas Peter who escaped by a lucky slit in a bark-house wall."

Livingston would have persuaded us to stay the night at his house, but we had told Ta-wan-ne-ars we would return to the tavern, so we let him get to his bed and sought our own.

In the morning we visited Captain Schuyler, but he was absent, riding some lands he held in the vicinity. We spent the forenoon in purchasing for me the regular trappings of the frontiersman--moccasins of ankle height and leather leggings and shirt, all Indian in manufacture. The weapons Juggins had supplied me were warmly praised by my comrades.

For the rest there were slim stores of salt, sugar, powder, flints and ball to be packed upon our backs. My garments of civilization I made into a package which I consigned to the innkeeper's care.

Personally I did not care in that moment whether I ever donned them again. I liked my companions. I liked the loose, yielding clothing I had acquired. I liked the feel of arms at my side and in my hands. I liked the sun and wind in my hair, for I refused to wear the fur-cap which the forest-runners affected and went like an Indian, bare-headed. I liked the close grip on the earth which the moccasins gave my feet.

At noon we mustered at the tavern door, ready for our plunge into the wilderness. It meant little to Ta-wan-ne-ars and Corlaer. For them 'twas an old story. But to me it meant everything--how completely everything I did not appreciate at that early day.

The Seneca inspected me with a grave smile as I appeared, fully arrayed for the first time.

"My brother wears Mohawk moccasins," he said. "We will find Seneca moccasins for him when we reach my country."

"Do I appear as a warrior should?" I inquired anxiously.

"Even to the scalp-lock," he assured me, in reference to my long hair.

"Can you walk t'irty miles a day?" demanded Corlaer seriously.

"I have done so."

"You will do idt efery day now," he remarked grimly.

We took the road to Schenectady. It was the last white man's road I was to see, and I long remembered its broad surface and the sunlight coming down between the trees on either hand and the farms with their log houses and stockades.

But I knew I was on the frontier at last, for the stockades were over-high for the mere herding of cattle and the house-walls were loop-holed. In several of the villages there were square, log-built forts, two stories tall, with the top story projecting out beyond the lower, so that the garrison could fire down along the line of the walls.

'Twas sixteen miles to Schenectady, and night had fallen when we hailed the gate for admission. There was a parley between Corlaer and the watch before we were admitted, but in the end the huge balks of timber creaked open just wide enough for us to squeeze through.

"You are cautious, friend," I said to the gatekeeper as I set my shoulder beside his and helped him shut the gate.

"And you are a stranger, my master," he retorted, "or you would never think it strange for Schenectady folk to use caution."

"How is that?" I asked.

And he told me in few words and simply how Monsieur d'Erville had surprized the town in his father's time and massacred the inhabitants.

"But now you have peace," I objected.

He looked at me suspiciously.

"Are you a friend of Andrew Murray?" he asked.

"Anything but that."

"Then talk not of peace, sir. Peace here will last until the French and their savages are ready to strike. No longer. It may be tonight. It may not be for twenty years--if we see to it that the French do not thrive at our expense."

We were afoot again early the next morning. Beyond Schenectady a few farms rimmed the road, but presently we came to a clearing, and on the west side a green barrier stretched across our way. From end to end of the clearing it reached, and as far on either hand as I could see, a high, tangled, apparently impervious green wall of vegetation. 'Twas the outer rampart of the wilderness.

Some men were working in a field beside the road, and I saw that they had their guns beside them.

"They are armed," I cried.

"So are you," replied Corlaer.

"But----"

"This is der frontier," he said. "Eferybody is armed. Eferybody is on watch."

"Why?"

"Idt is der frontier."

I held my peace, until we reached the forest-wall. Then curiosity mastered me again.

"The road stops here," I said to Ta-wan-ne-ars. "How shall we go on?"

He smiled.

"The road of the white man stops--yes," he answered. "But the road of the Ho-de-no-sau-nee begins."

"What is that?"

He made no answer, but kept on his way until we were under the bole of the first of the forest trees.

"Does my brother Ormerod see anything now?" he asked.

I shook my head, puzzled.

"My brother has much to learn of the forest and its ways," he commented.

He put his hand on my arm and led me around the trunk, Corlaer following with a broad grin on his face.

There at my feet was a deep, narrow slot in the earth, a groove some eighteen inches wide and perhaps twelve inches deep, that disappeared into the gloom which reigned under the interlacing boughs overhead. There was shrubbery and underbrush on every side, but none grew in or on the edge of the slot. It did not go straight, but crookedly like a snake, curving and twisting as it chanced to meet a mossy boulder or a tree too big to be readily felled or uprooted. As I stooped over it I saw that its bottom and steeply sloping sides were hard-packed, beaten down by continual pressure, the relentless pressure of countless human feet for generations and centuries.

"My brother is standing upon the Wa-a-gwen-ne-yuh, the Great Trail of my people." said Ta-wan-ne-ars proudly. "It is the highway of the People of the Long House. Day after day we shall follow it, along the valley of the Mohawks, into the land of the Oneidas and Tuscaroras, on into the valley where the Onondagas keep alight the sacred Council Fire which was kindled by Da-ga-no-weda and Ha-yo-wont-ha, the Founders of the League, and on, still on, my white brother, past the country of the Cayugas to the villages of my own people whom you call the Senecas, and at the last to the Thunder Waters of Jagara, where Joncaire works to conquer the domain of the Long House for the French King."

"But over this same trail, Ta-wan-ne-ars, the warriors of the Long House shall burst upon the French to frustrate that plan!" I exclaimed.

"Aye, so it shall be," he replied.

Corlaer sighed and resettled his pack on his shoulders.

"We hafe much distance to go today," he said.

Ta-wan-ne-ars instantly led the way into the groove of the trail, and as if instinctively swung into an easy loping trot. I followed him and the Dutchman brought up the rear.

It was cool under the trees, for the sun seldom penetrated the foliage, dense already although it was only the fag-end of Spring. And it was very silent--terribly, oppressively silent. The crack of a stick underfoot was like a musket-shot. The padding of our feet on the resilient leaf-mold was like the low rolling of muffled drums. The timorous twittering of birds seemed to set the echoes flying.

Yet I was amazed when Ta-wan-ne-ars halted abruptly in mid-afternoon, and inclined his ear toward the trail behind us.

"What is it?" I asked, and so completely had the spirit of the forest taken possession of me that I whispered the words.

"Something is following us," he answered.

Corlaer put his ear to the bottom of the trail, and a curious expression crossed his face.

"_Ja,_" was all he said.