CHAPTER XX.
Farewell to Earth—Indian’s Idea of the Hereafter—Death of Cahoonshee—Married on Her Mother’s Grave.
Wallace and Drake returned to the deck to consult as to the future.
Have you any plan arranged to carry out Cahoonshee’s request?
I have, replied Drake. That was agreed upon in the private conversation I had with him when I first came on board of the ship. It is to build a litter on which to carry him, and start immediately for the Delaware Valley.
What—before he is dead?
Yes, immediately. He is impressed with the idea that he will live until his arrival at home. At any rate, that is his request, and it shall be complied with if possible.
You seem to have perfect confidence in the wisdom of the old man. Do you intend to perform his last request and marry Cora?
My promise to a dying man is sacred. And as far as it is in my power, it shall be performed. I do not know what Cora’s feelings are. I have followed his advice for over twenty years, and shall not reject it now. If Cora is willing I shall make her my bride.
Cora had approached them unperceived, and on hearing Drake’s last remark, tapped him under the chin and said:
Then I shall be your bride. I do consent. I consented on the island, when you held me in your arms and thought I was another girl. I then thought that Walter had found a prize that belonged to another, and I asked you if you loved her, and you said “as a sister.” Now kiss me, and I will go and see my intended mother-in-law and Amy.
She skipped away like a young fawn, leaving Walter and Drake to perfect their plans.
I think, said Walter, that we had better consult the Captain.
The Captain was then informed of the plan to remove Cahoonshee to his home. He approved of the same, and ordered them to take what men and material they wanted to accomplish their object.
How long will you be gone? inquired the Captain.
That is uncertain, and will depend on how long he lives, replied Drake. I shall not leave him until I have performed my promise.
Just then Cora and Amy came rushing up, as happy as two kittens. Cora threw her arms around Mrs. Davis’s neck, looked into her eyes, and said:
Mother, how do you like your new daughter-in-law?
That is a good joke on you, said Lieutenant Powers.
But, replied Cora, it is no joke. I was never more sincere in my life. I tell you my name is Mrs. Charles Davis, seizing the Captain by one hand and Drake by the other. Come father, why don’t you congratulate us?
For what?
For finding a son and losing him the same day and getting a daughter in his place.
Do you think that you could love my son on so short an acquaintance?
Oh, we met before we came on the ship.
Where?
On the island. Oh, if you had seen him hug and kiss me, you would have thought him a persistent lover and that he had studied the art to perfection.
My children, all I know about this matter is what I have heard Cahoonshee say, and he had some reasons to believe that his wishes would be complied with. For my part, I am ready to believe anything. The events have rushed upon us so fast for the past forty eight hours, that I have lost my reckoning. But if you two intend to make fast to each other, leave the sea of single blessedness and sail upon the broad ocean of matrimony, you have my consent. But our first duty is to take care of Cahoonshee.
The ship carpenter built a litter on which to carry Cahoonshee, and the arrangements were completed, when an unexpected difficulty arose. Amy wished to return with the party, and Cora said that she would not trust Drake to go through that wilderness unless she was along to protect him. Then the doctor appeared and informed them Rolla was sick and would probably die, but that Cahoonshee was stronger.
It was finally arranged that both of the girls should accompany the party back to the Delaware Valley, and officers were sent on shore to procure horses.
Thus, another day was passed.
The next morning Cahoonshee was carried on shore and placed on the litter. The elder Quick was sent on horse-back in advance to announce to the people the return of Cahoonshee and his condition.
Amy, Cora, Walter and Drake led the way, followed by Tom and Jack and ten others carrying Cahoonshee.
It is not our intention to describe the incidents of the journey home further than to say that during the entire journey, the greatest respect was paid to the returning warrior, by both natives and whites.
It already appears that civilization was moving west, and at the time of which we write, the Delaware Valley, from Milford, on the south, to Mamakating, on the north, was settled by the whites, principally of the Holland and French extractions, among which were the Cuddebacks, Deckers, Gumaers, Van Fleets, Van Inwegens, Swartwouts and Westfalls, who will become conspicuous as we proceed in our history.
On the evening of the third day, the parties carrying Cahoonshee arrived on the west bank of the Neversink River, (Port Clinton,) and about two miles from the Penepack (Huguenot) settlement.
Here the principal people of the Valley had assembled to pay their last respects to a man that all had loved, and the settlers above mentioned volunteered to accompany the party to Cahoonshee’s cabin on the Steneykill, and Amy was congratulated on her escape from the Indians and return home.
The next morning they marched to Peenpack, and from there, by way of the Cahoonshee trail, to the Steneykill, where they found the elder Quick ready to receive them.
As Cahoonshee was lifted from the litter and carried into his old home, his countenance brightened, and for a few moments he seemed to be living his life over again. Through the western window the declining sun could be seen. The leaves on the trees presented a golden hue, and proclaimed to the observer that the green and golden forest would soon be wrapped in the cold embrace of winter. All this was emblematical to Cahoonshee. As the leaf faded, died and returned to mother earth, so would he.
My friends, he said, this is the last sun that I shall see set. To-morrow, at this time, I shall have passed away. That orb that has so long furnished me light and heat will be seen by me no more.
Is this the last of man? or is there an existence beyond the grave? If not, why this distinction between men and animals? Do what I may, go where I will, I am always impressed by some influence—I know not what—that I am mortal. Yet this same certain something convinces me that I am immortal.
This is a path leading to the Great Spirit—a mirror of Deity. And to prove that, it is not necessary to explain how I came by this idea—whether I derived it from my forefathers, or whether the Great Spirit has engraved it on my mind, or whether I, myself have formed it from a chain of principles.
Of myself, I am fully persuaded that I have an idea of a being supremely great, and one, whose perfections and powers I am unable to understand. And I know that there must be somewhere without me an object answering to the idea within.
For, as I think and as I know that I am not the author of the faculty that thinks within me, I am obliged to conclude that a foreign cause has produced it. If this foreign cause is a being that derives its existence from another foreign cause, then I am necessarily obliged to proceed from one step to another, and in this way go on until I find a self existing being. That self existing being is the Indian’s Great Spirit—the white man’s God.
This idea is not a phantom of my creation, it is the portrait of the original. It exists in me and independent of me. Thus, in myself I find proof of a first great cause.
I am now going to unite myself to that cause. To-morrow I lay this body down. The body will return to its original dust, and my spirit to its original—to the Great Spirit that gave it.
I have no desire to stay any longer. My tribe has become extinct. My race is passing away. The Indians of the American forest will live in history only—raise me up a little higher, Drake—there, that will do. I see the silver streaks in the east, and soon the sun will cast its cheerful rays over this beautiful landscape, to be seen, but not by me. Then Cahoonshee will have winged his way to the last hunting ground.
The whole party was standing by the dying man. His mind was clear, strong and vigorous, but his voice was weak.
The sun rose over the eastern hills and cast its rays in the old man’s face. A perceptible smile lit up his countenance, and he faintly said:
It is finished.
Thus died the last of the Cahoonshees.
A rude coffin is made, and Cahoonshee is carried to the house prepared for all living.
What a commentary on human nature. A few years before, the Delaware Valley swarmed with the red men of the forest. Now the last of his race is carried to his grave by the white man. Cuddeback and Gumaer on the left and Swartwout and Van Etten on the right, carry him to the grave, followed by the rest of the party, and bury him on a pine hill, west of his cabin.
There was no ringing of bells, no mock eulogy, no hypocritical mourning. But in silence they laid him away, each one feeling that the body of one of the wisest and best of men reposed there. (See Appendix.)
The parties then returned to the cabin and distributed the personal effects of Cahoonshee, and then proceeded to Quick’s cabin on the Shinglekill.
The next morning they went to Hawk’s Nest, where Drake pointed out to Walter the point in the river where he first saw the float with Amy and her mother on it. Then they visited the Callicoon, the former home of Walter and Amy. There was the old sugar maple tree where they had so often played, and where they first learned to love. There was the towering oak where Walter shot the panther. There was the tree where his cat Amy stood, and just over the ridge was where he found surveyor Webb.
The reader can imagine the thoughts that passed through their minds as they sat under the tree, holding each other’s hands, living over again the days of their childhood.
Walter, said Amy, there is one more place I wish to visit, and then I will be ready to go with you to England. I wish to go once more to my mother’s grave.
Did we not pass near it on the way to Hawk’s Nest?
Yes, but I did not wish to go there then. There is where I lost my best friend, and there is where I wish to give my hand to you—my heart you have always owned. I gave it to you under this tree. Let us go to the grave of my mother. There for the first time let me call you husband.
Walter could not deny this request, although he had intended to defer the marriage until their arrival in London.
The parties then returned to the Shinglekill, where preparations were made to celebrate the nuptials of Walter and Amy.
The pastor of the little flock of worshipers that resided in the Valley, Johannes Casparus Fryenmout, was invited to officiate on the occasion, and bring with him his young wife that he had lately taken from the Van Etten family.
His little church was built of logs, and was situated on the road leading from Carpenters Point (Tri-States,) to Kingston, on the west bank of the Machackamack (Neversink) River. (See Appendix.)
He thought that the wedding should take place at his church, assigning as a reason, that “a grave yard was not in keeping with the occasion.” But Amy thought different, and insisted that the marriage should take place at her mother’s grave.
It was a warm November day when they left Quick’s cabin to march to the cemetery that contained a single grave. The good pastor led the way, followed by the Quicks and other neighbors. Next came Tom and Jack, followed by the sailors and marines. Then came Amy and Cora, followed by Walter and Drake.
As the head of the column reached the consecrated place the lines divided, and the heroes of our tale marched through and took their station at the head of the grave.
The pastor took for his text the words that Cahoonshee had cut on the grave stone:
“Here lies Mary, the mother of Amy.”
Here we have another proof of the wisdom of the Psalmist: “God works in a mysterious way his wonders to perform.” Years ago, the mother of the lady that is about to take upon herself the duties of a wife, was consigned to this grave. Her body lies mouldering in the silent tomb. Her soul has gone to the God that gave it. And if, as we are assured, angels are the spirits of the just made perfect, then the spirit of that mother is hovering over and about us, and I doubt not, approving of this union. From the day her body was consigned to this grave, a mysterious providence has protected her child. And not only her child, but the child of William Wallace, who is now about to make her his bride. My friends, as a token that this union has the sanction of Heaven, that you have given to and received each other to yourself, that each of you possesses the whole of the other’s heart, that you are twain, one flesh, you will signify it by kneeling on this sacred grave. Here, in the presence of Heaven and these witnesses, I pronounce you one, and recorded in Heaven as husband and wife. And may the same kind providence that has so mysteriously led you in the past continue to watch over you. May the same love and emotions that was your polar star when in search of each other still continue to shine. And when the time comes for an earthly separation, may there be a re-union in Heaven between mother and child. Amen.
Drake had been an interested spectator of this scene. It brought vividly to his memory the history of the past. He remembered that at this grave he had tried to console Amy for the loss she sustained by the death of her mother. That on this spot he had promised to search for her lover, and now on this spot he had witnessed the consummation of his wishes. At his side stood Cora, his affianced wife. Were their hearts united like the couple that had knelt before them? He felt a strong infatuation for Cora. Was it real? Did it come from the heart, or was it the influence that Cahoonshee still exerted over him? Was it the promise that he had made a dying man that influenced him?
From the time they left the ship until Amy’s marriage, Cora had been in his company, but by no word or action had she referred to the scene on the ship, where Cahoonshee had placed her hand in his and said:
“She loves you!”
True, at that time, she seemed to acquiesce to the dying man’s request. Was this real, or was it an acquiescence to please an aged warrior, and dismissed from her mind when death had closed his eyes?
I will know, now and here, he thought to himself.
He offered Cora his arm, and they walked to the upper end of Butternut Grove. Seating themselves, he said:
Cora, you remember the occasion on the ship, when all were present, and Cahoonshee joined our hands, and asked me to make you my wife? I consider that promise sacred, and my love of the memory of the dead tells me to keep it. But with you, it is different. I have no right to insist that you should keep a promise given under such circumstances. Tell me frankly, Cora, do you feel yourself bound by that promise?
Cora seized both of his hands, and looked intently into his eyes, said:
Charles, do you wish me to keep that promise?
Drake was not prepared to answer this straight forward question, and wished for time to collect his thoughts. Cora noticed his confusion, and said:
I will answer your question. I do feel myself bound by that promise—not that I made it to Cahoonshee, but from the fact that my heart was yours before that promise was made.
When? he asked.
On the island, she replied. Now Charles, I have answered your question. Will you answer mine? Do you wish me to keep mine?
I do if—
Don’t have any ifs about it, throwing her arms around him. Now hug and kiss me as you did on the island.
He took her in his arms and said:
Cora. I neither know myself or you. Yet something tells me that without you life would be miserable.
CHAPTER XXI.
Cora Receives Her Reward.
The next morning they parted, the Quicks returning to their farm at Milford, and Walter, Amy and friends to the Hudson, arriving there on the evening of the third day.
They were met at the landing by Lieutenant Powers and escorted to the Reindeer, where they were joyfully received by Captain Davis and wife.
Then the events of the journey were related, and Amy and Walter introduced to them as husband and wife.
Cora was in the best of spirits, and sought the first opportunity to make a demand on Captain Davis for the reward he had offered for the recovery of his son.
I claim the reward, she said.
You shall have it, he replied. Let me see. I believe it was one hundred and fifty pounds. We will call it that, more or less. Purser, bring the sparkling gold.
I prefer sparkling eyes, replied Cora, taking Charles by the hand and advancing to the Captain. I want the one hundred and fifty pounds you promised, but I don’t want it in gold, I want one hundred and fifty pounds avoirdupoise, in flesh and blood. In a word, I want your son for a husband.
My son is of age and can speak for himself, said the Captain.
And he has spoken for himself. He has promised to marry me.
Ah, sly puss, said the Captain. That is the result of allowing you to go off together in the wilds of the Delaware Valley.
You are mistaken there, Captain. As far as our hearts are concerned, that was settled before we started.
Charles, said the Captain, marriage is a personal matter in which parents should advise, but never control their children. But if you have agreed, you have my consent. Set the time for the wedding, and I will see that ample arrangements are made.
I think, said Charles, that my mother should be consulted.
Certainly, replied Cora.
I think, said Mrs. Davis, that the marriage should be deferred until we reach home. A few months’ acquaintance may change your feelings. I fear the promise made to Cahoonshee is the moving cause to this engagement. If so, it might be disastrous to both parties.
While Cora was standing at the grave of Mary Powers she resolved that if she married Drake, it should be at her father’s house, and for that reason intended to defer the marriage until they arrived in London. But she didn’t like the reasoning of Mrs. Davis. The idea that any change could take place was preposterous, as she was convinced that Charles loved her, and that her heart was in the right place.
The parties then went into a committee of the whole, and resolved to let all matters rest until they arrived in London.
In a few days the anchor is raised, and the Reindeer starts on her ocean voyage, and in due time entered the Thames.
This brought to Walter’s mind the contrast between the past and present. When he sailed up the river before, all was doubt and uncertainty. Then the object of his affections was far behind, somewhere in the wilderness of America. Now she stood by his side, his Amy, his loving bride. Then it was uncertain how he would be received. Now he knew that he would be welcome and received as the child and heir of two of the first families in London.
In the mean time, the Reindeer is nearing the harbor, the docks of which were lined with people. The parties landed, and Lord and Lady Wallace gave their children a hearty welcome. Amy was put in possession of her share of her grand-father’s property, and Tom Jones married Jack Frost’s eldest daughter.
A few evenings after their arrival, the mansion of the old Admiral was ablaze of light. The occasion was the marriage of Charles Davis to Cora Powers.
After the ceremony was over, Walter invited all present to the art gallery, which contained many objects of interest, but none were more conspicuous than the preserved skins, stuffed and made natural, of the white cats, Walt and Amy, and standing between them, looking as natural as life, was the dog Rolla. And here we will dismiss them and return to the Delaware Valley.
CHAPTER XXII.
Death of Thomas Quick, Sr., and the Threat of His Son Tom.
Many years have passed since William Wallace and Thomas Powers passed up the Delaware Valley. Then the country was one unbroken forest, inhabited by wild beasts and Indians only. Now all has changed. The Indians have mostly left, and the whites have taken their place. The flat land from Milford to Mamakating is mostly improved, and is yielding to the farmer an abundant harvest. Stacks of hay and grain are to be seen in every field. The flail is heard from morn till night thrashing out the golden wheat. In every house is heard the buzzing wheel, the prattling babe and the merry voices of lovely maids. Grist and saw mills have been erected, schools established, and passable roads built.
But now a cloud appears. It was the cloud that Cahoonshee had foretold many years before. That:
“There would be a war of extermination between the white men and the Indians, and the Indians would be exterminated.”
The Indians claimed that they had been cheated by the whites, and robbed and driven from their soil and the graves of their fathers. Revenge smothered in their breasts, and at a council held by the remnants of several of the tribes, it was resolved to destroy all the whites in the Delaware and Neversink Valleys.
The whites did not see the danger that was impending over them, or the dark cloud that would soon deluge the Valley with blood and cause mourning in every house.
Most of the inhabitants thought the Indians friendly, and those that were unfriendly too few to make war on the whites.
For this reason they became careless, and went to their fields and on journeys unarmed, and thus became easy victims of the savages.
Thomas Quick, Sr., was now living on his farm at Milford, and had always been a staunch friend of the Indians. His house had always been open for their reception and his table bountifully spread to satisfy their wants.
His son, Tom spent most of his time among them and appeared to think more of them and their savage life than he did of his father and the comforts of home.
He thought that this would protect him, and that if war was made upon the whites, he would not be molested.
But he was deceived. Instead of being passed by, he was doomed to be the first victim. His sentence had already been passed, and the wily Indians were waiting in ambush for an opportunity to execute it.
Having occasion to use some hoop-poles, he, with his son Tom and his son-in-law, went up the river to cut them unarmed.
At this time the Indians were concealed, planning an attack on the Milford settlement, with the intention of putting to death the entire population. Knowing that Quick and his sons kept trusty rifles and that their aim was deadly, they faltered and argued as to the best mode of attack.
In the midst of this harangue, Quick and his sons were seen coming toward them. It was immediately resolved to take their scalps.
An Indian by the name of Muswink fired, and Quick fell mortally wounded. He advised his son to leave him to his fate and save themselves. But they persisted in trying to save him. He cried again as the Indians rushed upon them.
Leave me and save yourselves and those that are at the house.
It was a struggle for Tom to leave his father, and it was not until he saw them coming in great numbers that he fled.
Farewell, Father, Farewell, your death shall be avenged.
Then he fled across the river on the ice, a volley of bullets followed him. He falls. The war whoop is sounded.
Tom is dead—Tom is dead!
But Tom is neither dead nor wounded. He springs to his feet and escapes to the Jersey Shore. A ball had struck the heel of his shoe and tripped him.
In the meantime his father had been killed and scalped. Tom sought the opportunity and recovered the scalped body of his father and gave it christian burial. His love for the Indians and their society now forsook him, and the uppermost thought in his mind was revenge. He covered the grave with green sod, and taking his knife in his right hand, and his rifle in his left, looking toward heaven, exclaimed:
and he threw himself across his father’s grave.
How well Tom kept his promise and how many Indians his rifle sent to the Spirit world will appear in the next chapter.
CHAPTER XXIII.
Tom kept his vow and had his revenge.
The threat of Tom Quick mentioned in the preceding chapter was one that was not made in vain. It was made while he was standing in the presence of his dead father. On finding the body, he turned it over and exclaimed, “dead and scalped.” Tradition says that from that moment he was a changed man. His love for the society of the Indians forsook him, and his only thought was revenge; and turning to his mother and other friends said, “You will see that father is properly buried, I have other work to do. From this time my work will be to avenge my father’s death.” Then followed the vow recorded in the former chapter—“To kill all and spare none.” And left his friends to perform the last office to the dead, and went forth on his mission of revenge. For two years after this he was seldom seen in the settlements, and then only long enough to procure powder and shot, which was his chief stock in trade. Tom seldom talked and then only to hunters or those he could rely on to keep his secrets; except to himself and to his gun, which was of the largest size, being seven feet four inches long and weighed 21 pounds, and carried a ball one inch in diameter. It was an old saying that when one of Tom’s bullets went through an Indian, that it made two windows in him and a hall between them. I have said that Tom seldom talked except to himself and he did the most of this when he was alone, or at least when he thought he was alone. But he was heard on several occasions, and tradition has handed down to us several of his soliloquies. The following is a fair sample of his home talk. He had been out on a hunt and had returned to his cabin in the edge of evening with a saddle of venison. He hung the venison up on the corner of the house and looked toward the east where he saw a full moon, when he soliloquized as follows:
“This is rather a nice evening. Let me see, it is a full moon; a good coon night. What say you long Tom, (raising his gun) how would you like to drop one of the red coons before morning. I would; that would make just 87 red devils that I have sent to the Spirit land since Muswink murdered my father. Tell me, O ye stars, (looking up) for what was he murdered. For being a friend to the Indian, for furnishing them with shelter and food, for being a good man, a kind neighbor, a God-fearing and God-loving man. Father, my father, you sleep on the banks of the Delaware; no only your body lies there, your spirit is here, there, everywhere it is now hovering round and about me. It is continually whispering in my ear revenge, revenge. It is God’s will, father that your death should be avenged. It is God’s will that your son Tom Quick should be the avenger. For this I have left home and the comforts of civilized life and burrowed in the ground like a rabbit. For this I left the mother that gave me birth, and taught me to say: ‘Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep; If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.’ That kind good and generous mother now kneels on the old family hearth and mourns the loss of the living as though dead. Maggie too; God bless her. She is here; I feel her continually knocking at my heart, saying ‘Uncle Tom, come home.’ Pray on dear girl, and when my mission is ended, may father, son, mother and child meet in that happy hunting ground where there will be no father’s blood to avenge.”
Here Tom was interrupted in his soliloquy by an unusual noise in his pig pen. He was always on the alert, knowing that the Indians intended to shed his blood and take his scalp. Therefore he took notice of every sound. It was uncommon for the pig to squeal. This squeal sounded unnatural, and Tom concluded that the squealing emanated from the throat of an Indian. “Some new deviltry is going on; that squeal sounds more like a two legged devil than a four legged hog. Come Tom, (taking his gun) let us look around and see if one of those pesky red skins is trying to steal our pork, (Pig squeals.) That is pretty well done, yet the genuine hog grammar is left out. You forget to dot your I’s and cross your T’s. (Squeals again.) That is a little better, and might deceive a boy, but it won’t me. Tom is too old for that. You had better stop squealing and go to praying for the devil will have a new comer before morning, or my name is not Tom Quick. Come Tom (taking up his gun) let us walk around and see how his porkship looks in the rear.” Tom passes through his cabin and appears to the left of the pig pen. He was not mistaken in his calculation, for there he saw a powerful Indian holding the hog with the left hand, while he held the gun in his right, ready to shoot Tom when he came to see what was the matter with the pig. Tom aimed and fired. The Indian gave one whoop, leaped in the air, and fell on the outside of the pen dead. A ball had pierced his head. Tom placed his foot on the Indian’s breast.
Well done, Tom, patting his gun. Well done. Let me see. That makes the record just eighty-seven red devils that I have sent to the Spirit World since Muswink murdered my father. Let me see. According to old Daball, it will take just thirteen more to make an even hundred. Tom, let us pray.
He kneels, holding the gun before him.
Good Lord, or good devil—either one or both, I do hereby pray that I may be permitted to remain in this mortal coil until I have sent thirteen more Indians to the Spirit Land. Then I shall be ready and willing to depart to the Hunter’s Paradise. Amen.
Tom gets up off his knees and turns the Indian over with his foot.
Well, Mr. Squealer, why don’t you squeal now? I guess that Long Tom has taken all the squeal out of you. I suppose that when the bullet went in, the squeal went out. But I must get rid of you. You will smell bad here and will invite the bears and wolves to view your miserable carcass. Come, take your last leap down the rocks.
Then Tom threw his carcass down the rocks and went on his way rejoicing.
The stories of Tom’s adventures are legion, and for nearly one hundred years have been told. The author heard them related nearly seventy years ago. His father lived in the days of Tom Quick and was conversant with his history.
Tom made it his habit to watch the Indians and shoot them as they went up and down the Delaware in their canoes and frequently waylaid them as they traveled through the country on their trails or deerpaths.
With these paths he was well acquainted and would spend days and months lurking in the vicinity of their haunts for the purpose of getting a shot at one or more of them. Every few days an Indian was missed. He was last seen in the company of Tom, but never after.
The Indians knew that Tom had sworn that he would kill them whenever opportunity offered. Consequently, when an Indian was missing it was laid to Tom.
Furthermore, Tom had a knack of finding a great many guns in his travels through the woods. It was usually thought that he found the Indian that owned the gun before he found the gun.
For this reason the Indians were not only anxious, but determined to kill him. Many a ball had been fired at him, but they all went wide of the mark. The Indians believed that the white man’s God protected him, that he had a charmed life, and could not be hit by a bullet fired by an Indian. They therefore resolved to take him alive, and to that end six Braves were appointed to watch and capture him.
It so happened that about this time Tom was splitting rails for a Mr. Westbrook who then lived in the Mamakating Valley. Tom wished to get the rails split in the forenoon as he had been informed that there was to be total eclipse of the sun about one o’clock in the afternoon, and that it would then be so dark that he could not see to work. The log he was trying to split was winding and cross grained, and the blows of the heavy beetle on the wedges failed to open the log. Tom was nearly out of breath and quite out of patience, and commenced talking to himself.
“Here I am at Westbrookville splitting rails. I should be at Shohola splitting heads and scattering Indian brains. That would be more in keeping with my conscience, than to stand here and pound these wedges. Confound the log, it is as cross grained as a peperage, and sticks to the bark as close as an Indian to his scalping knife. Curse the red Devils, I long to see the last one killed and scalped. If there was more Tom Quick’s there would be less Indians. Well, they are growing less every day. Yesterday I sent five more to the Spirit land. Yesterday I colored Butler’s Falls with blood. Yesterday the hawks at Hawk’s Nest mountain wafted the spirits of five more to the Indians’ eternal hunting ground. There were big spirits and little spirits. It was easy to pop over the old man and his Squaw, but when it came to knocking out the brains of the little babe, that kinder went against the grain. Confound the little redskin, he looked me right in the eye and laughed—as much as to say, ‘Uncle Tom don’t.’ I most wish that I had spared the boy to see if anything could be made out of a redskin. But pshaw! Papooses become Indians as surely as nits become lice. But I must go to work, or the sun will darken before I get these rails split. To-day comes the great eclipse of the sun and soon that orb from which we receive light and heat will be obscured, and the earth will be wrapped in the mantle of night. I see that it is approaching and darkness will soon prevail.”
This soliloquy nearly cost Tom his life. Whilst he was talking six dusky Indians were noiselessly crawling toward him. So stealthily had been their approach that Tom was not aware of their presence until he was grasped by two stalwart Indians. He sprang for his rifle, dragging the Indians with him, but the others came and Tom was overpowered. He saw his peril and knew that it was only by strategy that he could escape. The fact of the eclipse flashed across his mind and he resolved at once to excite the superstition of the Indians by appealing to the white man’s God.
Hawkeye was the first to break the silence. “Pale face, your time has come. The Avenger of the Delaware Valley must die. At sun down you can fight faggot and fire. Now call on the white man’s God and see if he will save you.”
Tom replied: “The white man’s God is the Indian’s great spirit; that spirit is here and talks with me.”
Hawkeye looked at Tom with astonishment. “What does the white man’s God say?”
Tom replied: “He says that Indian tells the truth—that my time has come—that I must die—that I must not fight the Indians anymore, but must go with you as soon as my work is done.”
Hawkeye looked pleased and said: “What work?”
“Finish splitting this log,” replied Tom.
The Indians were so pleased to capture Tom without a fight that they were thrown off their guard and laid down their arms.
What more does the white man’s God say, inquired Hawkeye?
He says, replied Tom, that you must help me split this log and that he will darken the sun until you light the fire about me. See, the sun darkens, the work of the Great Spirit has begun, and it will soon be night at noon-day.
The sun was partially eclipsed and the Indians gazed with astonishment. Hawkeye seemed dumbfounded and stammered out: White man’s God great and powerful. How did he say Indian help?
Tom replied: Get three on a side and pull when I strike the wedge. The Indians obeyed and arranged themselves three on each side of the log with their fingers in the crack of the log.
We ready, strike the wedge, said Hawkeye.
Tom struck; but instead of striking the wedge in, he struck it out, and the Indians were fast in the log as much so as if they had been screwed in a vice.
Tom was jubilant. He now had the six Indians in his power and could kill them at his leisure. He gave one of his peculiar laughs and said: Ha! Ha! Mr. Indians, the white man’s God says more. He says you Indians must die. Look at the waning sun. When that becomes dark, you Indians will be in the Spirit world. It grows darker, darker. Your time has come—now you die.
The eclipse was now nearly total, and Tom proceeded to the execution of his purpose; by knocking their brains out with the beetle. And then left for the house, leaving the Indians still fast in the log to become food for bears and wolves.
CHAPTER XXIV.
Killing a Buck with Seven Skins.
Tom had a great many cabins or caves between the Water Gap and Shohola, and was never at a loss for a place to stay over night. But he usually wintered at the house of some mutual friend, and the terms upon which he stayed was that he should furnish the winter meat. Any family living on the border was anxious and willing to board him; for during his stay they were sure of being provided with plenty of game and living on the fat of the land.
On one occasion winter set in earlier than usual and he did not have his usual supply of venison on hand to supply the table of the friend with whom he intended to winter. He made arrangements for a long hunt in a part of the country where he knew that game was plenty, and in a few days he would get sufficient to supply his friend’s cabin for a long time.
The night before he intended to start, a friendly Indian called at the cabin and asked to stay over night, which was granted.
Tom was suspicious, although the Indian appeared to be friendly. They soon became acquainted, and it was not long before they agreed to go on a hunt, Tom agreeing to take the venison for his part and the Indian the skins.
Game was plenty, especially deer. In fact the woods seemed to be full of them. It was bang!—bang!—bang! and at every report a deer fell. They were soon skinned and the hind quarters hung up out of the reach of bears and wolves until Tom could get time to take them to the cabin.
When they came to count, they found that they had killed seven. The Indian was in the best of spirits, and so was his companion.
Me lucky, said the Indian. Me got seven skins. They worth seven dollars. That buy me piles of fire water, powder and lead. Whoop! Whoop!
Seven skins was all the Indian could carry, and it was resolved to return, Tom to the cabin, and the Indian to Minisink to get powder, fire water and lead.
The skins were securely fastened on his back, and they started. But the Indian never reached the settlement. They had not traveled far before the report of Tom’s gun was heard, and down went the Indian, the ball having gone through the seven skins and penetrated his heart.
It was not long after this that another Indian came to the house where Tom was stopping and asked permission to stay all night, which was granted. He professed to be very friendly, but Tom’s quick eye soon discovered that all was not right.
During the evening the savage pretended that he had seen a great many deer a few miles off, and asked Tom if he wouldn’t like to go the next day and kill some of them.
Tom pretended that he was pleased with the offer, and at once agreed to go with the Indian. But Tom was on the alert. He was well convinced that some Indian deviltry lay behind this pretended friendship, and acted accordingly.
During the night he managed to get the Indian’s rifle and draw the charge and substituted ashes in the place of powder, put the ball back in the barrel, and placed the rifle carefully back where he got it. The next morning the savage slyly inserted the ramrod in the barrel of his rifle, examined the priming, picked the flint and seemed satisfied that all was right. During this time Tom watched him intently and was more than ever convinced that the Indian intended to take his life. But he manifested no particular interest and started out on the hunt with no apparent concern. The snow was deep and the hunters found it inconvenient to travel through it, and to make the walking easier the Indian proposed that one of them should go ahead to break the path. To this Tom readily agreed and started on ahead. A twinkle of the eye showed that the Indian was pleased, but Tom’s keen eye had observed that twinkle and the satisfaction that beamed on the Indian’s countenance. When they had proceeded a mile or two and had come to a very lonely place Tom heard the Indian’s gun snap and the powder flash in the pan, and looking back, asked the Indian what he had fired at. A fine buck, was his reply. The Indian reprimed his gun and they started on. In a few minutes Tom heard another snap and flash. Well, brother, what did you see this time? An eagle swept over the forest, replied the disappointed savage, at the same time priming his gun.
Brother Indian, said Tom, the snow is deep and I am tired.
Yes, brother, the Indian replied, and sullenly took his place in advance. Tom was now ripe for blood. He raised his rifle and took deadly aim at the Indian. Lying dog, what do you see now? The Spirit World, and drew the blanket over his head. You came to kill me.
Yes, replied the Indian, but you have fooled my gun.
And long Tom shall fool you. Tom’s rifle spoke and the Indian was in the Spirit World.
One day in Tom’s wandering through the woods without his rifle he met a young Indian armed. They soon became apparent friends. Brother Indian, said Tom, did you ever see Tom Quick the Indian Slayer?
No, replied the youth, but I would like to see him.
I will show him to you, follow me. They walked on until they came to a ledge of rocks, and Tom peered over. I do not see him yet, he said, but he will soon be along. Here he comes now. You take my place if you want to get a good sight of him.
The Indian cocked his rifle and hastily and eagerly advanced to Tom’s side. Where is he? excitedly inquired the red man.
There, there, said Tom, pointing so that the Indian would lean over the brink in his desire to shoot the enemy of his race. A little further, a little further, whispered the Indian slayer to his proposed victim. The Indian hung over the precipice as far as he could without falling. Tom grasped him by the shoulders and said: Shoot me would you! Shoot me, and hurled him over the precipice. He fell on the rocks below and was dashed to pieces. And Tom went on his way rejoicing, leaving the body of his victim to be devoured by the crows.
HIDING GUNS IN HOLLOW TREES.
Tom’s habit of hiding guns in hollow trees in the woods on one occasion saved his life. Two Indians had captured him near Grass Brook and were taking him off. He seemed perfectly resigned to his fate which appeared unavoidable, and marched with them unreluctantly. His arms were pinioned with deer shins thongs, and his captors kept upon him a vigilant eye, and were ready at any moment to shoot him if he attempted to break away from them. After a while they were visited by a shower of rain, and Tom found that the thongs which bound his wrists began to stretch, and that they had become so loose that he could at any time free his hands. He was very careful to conceal this fact from the savages, and patiently waited for a favorable time to run or do something else to escape. Beside the path that they were pursuing there was a very large chestnut tree which was hollow, and on the side of the trunk that was the farthest from the path, the wood had entirely rotted away leaving a large hollow space. In the opening thus made, Tom had long before concealed several guns which he had found beside dead Indians. He had also deposited with them a flask of powder and a goodly store of bullets. When they had reached this tree, Tom expressed an urgent desire to go to it, and gave such a good reason for the request he made, that his captors consented to let him go. They permitted him to do so the more readily because he had thus far given them but little trouble. The Indians cocked their rifles when Tom stepped from the path and aimed them at him, each with his finger on the trigger, and watching him eagerly, determined to bring him down if he made the least movement to escape. Tom proceeded toward the tree very leisurely, and on reaching it, went behind it and was concealed from the view of his enemies. Within the most inconceivable time he charged three of his weapons with powder and lead. The Indians little thinking what Tom was about stood in the path with hardly a twig to screen them from his murderous fire. Tom afterwards said that he did not stop to return the ramrods to their places until he had as many of his guns loaded as he thought he should need. He hesitated a moment after he was ready to shoot fearing that his guns would “miss fire,” in consequence of their late disuse; but knowing that this was his last chance, he blazed away at one of the savages who fell dead in his tracks. The other tried to get behind the nearest unoccupied tree, but he never reached there, a bullet sent him to the Spirit land, to join hands with those that had been sent there by Tom’s rifle on many occasions before.
AN OLD LEGEND.
According to an old legend, Tom had a very severe battle with a savage who came to him while he was in the field at work. Tom saw the Indian approaching him unarmed and he did not feel afraid to encounter him on equal terms. The savage told a plausible tale about something that he pretended he had discovered not far off and which he wished his brother Yankee to see. Tom apparently without suspecting anything wrong consented to go with the Indian. His quick eye however saw a gleam of malignant satisfaction on the countenance of his visitor that told him plainer than words could have done what was the errand on which the red man was bent. The savage had discovered Tom from a hill near by and concealed his gun in the woods hoping to entice Tom to its neighborhood while he was unarmed and then he could not defend himself. But he counted his chickens before the eggs were hatched. Tom was never caught napping. He was now wide awake and concluded that there was a trap set for him. He had gone but a short distance with the Indian when he came to a hemlock knot which he concluded would be a very good weapon in a rough and tumble fight. He stooped to pick it up when the savage perceived what he was at, he sprang upon him. Then came the tug of war. Tom got hold of the knot; with the Indian on him, therefore he could not use it. A long struggle for life or death ensued between them. Tom finally succeeded and was once more a conqueror. He grappled the Indian by the throat with his teeth and strangled him to death. But to the day of his death, he averred this was the hardest and most severe fight of his life.
According to another legend, a native attempted to kill the Indian slayer while he was engaged in a saw mill. Tom discovered him and arranged his coat and hat in such a way as to deceive his destroyer. While the savage thought that he was about to shoot Tom, Tom sent a bullet through the Indian’s body and his bullets were generally fatal. Thus again the biter was bitten.
Previous to the Revolutionary War, a man named John Showers lived in a log house near the Falls of Mongaup. One evening five or six hunters met at his house which was quite a resort for such people. As the cabin afforded better accommodations than the forest they concluded to avail themselves of its shelter through the night. Tom Quick was among the number. During the evening an Indian came and asked permission to remain all night. He was told that he could stay. Late in the evening a goodly number of logs were placed on the fire. The hunters wrapped themselves in their blankets and laid down on the floor to sleep. They were soon in the land of dreams except Tom, who was watching silently for a chance to kill the Indian. One would imagine that he had shed blood enough already. But Tom thought otherwise. The spirit of his murdered father still animated him. When the breathing of the sleepers showed that they were sound asleep, Tom threw aside his blanket and cautiously and noiselessly got his gun. In a few minutes the hunters were awakened by an explosion. They found themselves bespattered with brains and the Indian lay dead in their midst. Quick immediately after the firing left the cabin and disappeared in the forest. The hunters, after consulting, concluded the murder of the Indian should be concealed, in order to avoid any unpleasant consequences which might follow, if the Indians knew of it. The Indian was buried in the morning, and his death was unknown to any except the hunters, until concealment was no longer necessary.
CHAPTER XXV.
The Whiskey Scene. Six Indians Roasted.