CHAPTER IV.
BOSTON “SHEATS” THE LEAN DUTCHMAN, AND TURNS UP
IN HIS REAL CHARACTER.
Boston found Paul Swedlepipe exercising the horse which he had so lately bought from him. Beyond a strong desire to get his hind feet higher than his head when hard pressed, and a tendency to roll upon his rider when spurred, Paul had no fault to find with his purchase. He found that the little beast really possessed great powers of endurance, and was tolerably swift. The truth of the matter was, Boston had purchased the pony for his own use, and not to sell. The pleasant little fiction on his part, in regard to his having been purchased for Mynheer Ten Eyck, was made up on the spur of the moment, to induce Swedlepipe to buy, for Boston never missed any opportunity for a trade.
Not being cheated so badly as he expected, Swedlepipe was in good humor, and received the peddler with a smile, even while he restrained an attempt to kick on the part of the Narragansett.
“Ah-ha! Boston. Dat you, eh? Dis pretty goot hoss; glad dat you not sheat me too mooch dis time. You come for dem guilders, eh?”
“Not yet, mynheer. You see I’ve been pesky busy sense I left you. But I’ll keep my word. There comes Ten Eyck now.”
“Yaw, dat is goot. Let me stant by vile you sheat him.”
“I am only going to begin to-day. To-morrow I will finish,” replied Boston.
The ancestor of that famous race, the Ten Eyck’s of our country, rode up at this moment. It may be well to mention that this man and Swedlepipe were hereditary foes, and lost no opportunity for inflicting loss upon each other. Ten Eyck had rather the best of the encounter, as he had heard the story of the horse sold to Swedlepipe a few months before, which had caused the quarrel between the peddler and Swedlepipe.
In person, the two Dutchmen were at variance. Swedlepipe was short and stout; Ten Eyck was tall and lank. Swedlepipe’s hair was black; Ten Eyck’s was yellow, nearly approaching to red. Swedlepipe’s voice was pitched in a high treble; Ten Eyck had a deep, resounding bass. In an encounter with cudgels, the battle would have been to the strong, in the person of Swedlepipe. The acute Ten Eyck knew this right well, and likewise knew that he had the advantage in the use of harsh words and taunts. He had been especially hard upon poor Paul in the matter of the horse-trade.
The steed which Ten Eyck himself bestrode would not have been selected as an object of admiration upon Broadway or Rotten Row. In spite of the food which his master crammed into him, he would not grow fat. His bones protruded in a highly objectionable manner. His head was nearly double the size of that of any ordinary horse, and his neck being very long, he found it extremely difficult to hold it up. In consequence, a line drawn from the ears to the tail would have touched the back at every point. Boston hailed the appearance of this remarkable beast with a yell of delight.
“Oh, Lord! What a hoss—what a hoss!”
Swedlepipe joined at once in the cry.
“Whose hoss you laughing at, you Yankee? Dat hoss you sell to Swedlepipe a little worse, I guess.”
“I calculate you are wrong there, Mister Longshanks. Why, I know that hoss you are riding. He is forty years old. Some say that he was brought over in the Mayflower; some say not. A man like you oughtn’t to ride such a horse. Look at Mynheer Swedlepipe, and see what a hoss he rides! I s’pose you have heard how I sold the other one to him. That was all a mistake, and I have made it all right. Haven’t I, Mynheer Swedlepipe?”
“Yaw;” said Paul. “Dat ish goot now; dat vash bad hoss, dis ish goot von.”
Ten Eyck looked at the prancing pony with infinite disgust. Such was the nature of the two men, that one could not bear to have the other possess any thing which he could not get. Every prance of the Narragansett, every shake of his long tail, went to the tall man’s very heart. As for Swedlepipe, his face fairly beamed with exultation, and he stuttered in his joy, when he attempted to speak.
“The fact is, Mynheer Ten Eyck,” said Boston, “you don’t know who to buy a horse of, and you get cheated. Now I will tell you, in confidence, that there are several men in Windsor who would not hesitate to cheat you, upon any occasion. But, I have a character to lose; I must deal in a good article. If I sell you bad goods or a bad hoss, you will not buy of me again. Do you see?”
Ten Eyck saw.
“Very good, then. If you had bought a horse from me, it would have been a good one, if you paid me a good price. Of course you wouldn’t expect a very good horse for a very poor price. That’s plain enough, is it not?”
“You got long tongue, Boston,” said Ten Eyck. “Have you got a hoss to sell?”
“I can’t rightly say that I have a hoss just now. But I know where I can put my hand upon one within five hours.”
“Steal him?”
“You say that again, and I’ll drive your long legs four feet into the ground,” cried Boston, turning upon the Dutchman in sudden wrath. “Hark ye, sir. I am a plain man, and I speak plain language. In the way of trade I’ll get as much out of a man for as little in return, as any man in the five colonies. But, I won’t take ‘thief’ from any man. So look out.”
Ten Eyck almost fell from his horse in fear, and hastened to disclaim any personal allusion in his question.
“All right. Now I’ll answer your question. This hoss is where I can get him easily. All you have got to do is to ride home, and come again about five this evening to Paul Swedlepipe’s. You can see the hoss there.”
Turning up his nose at Paul Swedlepipe, and applying his heels to the sides of the remarkable courser he bestrode, Ten Eyck rode away, bobbing up and down in his saddle like a dancing-Jack.
“Now, Paul,” said Boston, “I want your help. Where is this hoss I sold you the other day?”
“Out in de bush.”
“Send for him.”
“What you want of him?”
“Never you mind; he is mine, and I want him. And mind, I also want the teeth and tail I sold with him. Them I must have.”
Paul called to one of his boys, and sent him after the horse, while he himself produced the tail and teeth which he had carefully preserved. The boy returned in about an hour, during which Paul and the hawker imbibed large quantities of apple-jack, not strong enough, however, to unsettle their ideas. When the boy appeared, Boston took the bridle of the horse, and led him away, closely followed by Swedlepipe.
Reaching an open glade in the forest, the peddler stopped, and tethered the horse to a swaying limb. He then took from his pack a keen lancet, with which he made a small incision in the skin under the shoulder of the beast. In this slit he inserted a quill, and begun to blow. Those accustomed to the management of a horse know the effect of this. In a few moments Paul, who stood looking on in open-mouthed wonder, did not know the horse, who seemed to grow fat under the hands of the skillful jockey.
After he had blown the animal up to a wholesome plumpness, Boston nicely and tightly sewed up the small incision. Then taking from his pack a small vial, he filled a large gourd which he had brought from the house with water from the spring, and poured into it the contents of the vial. The water at once assumed a greenish hue. With this mixture he now washed the horse thoroughly in every part, keeping him carefully in the shade. This done, he led him out into the sunlight, and, to the intense astonishment of Paul Swedlepipe, by some chemical action of the sun upon the mixture, the horse changed at once from a dirty white to a delicate shade of brown. Raising his hands upward, as if calling witnesses to his astonishment, the Dutchman cried:
“Der tuyvel is upon earth. You ish der tuyvel!”
“No, Paul. A lineal descendant of the old fellow, though. Do you think I could sell that horse to Ten Eyck?”
“Yaw. He is so goot changed he would sheat me again. I never puys nottings from you no more.”
“He must stand in the sun for a couple of hours, to let the color fasten, and then we will take him up to the house. Now let me put you up to a wrinkle. When Ten Eyck comes for the horse, I want you to bid against him.”
“Vat ish dat?”
“If he offers forty guilders for him, you must offer fifty.”
“For dat hoss? I no wants dat hoss.”
“You needn’t have him. Of course Ten Eyck will bid sixty. You will then say seventy.”
“Yaw, put I ton’t vant dat hoss.”
“I tell you I only want you to bid, and when I think he has offered enough, I shall wink to you, and you must stop bidding.”
“Put I needn’t have te hoss, eh?”
“No, you blockhead! Do as I tell you, if you want him to buy the horse.”
All this while, however, the Yankee was at work putting on the alien tail and putting in the ejected teeth, which, instead of being tied in, as Paul had said, were, in truth wired together with a skill which a modern dentist might have envied. It must have cost Boston time and patience to have produced such a double row of horse-incisors and molars; but he accomplished the task quite to his satisfaction—“good enough to deceive a dumb Dutchman,” he ejaculated.
It took some time to drum into Swedlepipe’s head that he was only required to make Peter Funk bids against the destined victim. Boston knew full well that if he sold Ten Eyck he would make a powerful enemy, as the tall man was high in power in the House of Good Hope. But, the events which he knew were on the march made him careless of consequences. Ten Eyck came at the appointed time, and found the two seated amicably over some long pipes and a goodly measure of apple-jack.
“Vere is dat hoss?” he said.
“Outside,” said Boston. “Let’s go out and see him. Oh, by the way, since you were here my friend Swedlepipe has seen this horse and has taken a fancy to it. I am afraid he will bid against you.”
“You promised him to me.”
“I promised to show you a hoss, and I will keep my word. Come, mynheer, let us go together.”
The horse was now tied in a little inclosure at the back of the house, whither the party now wended their way. Boston’s jockey-training had not been in vain, and it was really a handsome beast to look at!
“Now, den,” said Ten Eyck, taking out a plethoric purse, “vat you ask for dat hoss?”
“I don’t set any price for him,” replied Boston. “What do you think he is worth.”
“I gif’s you vifty guilders.”
“What do you say, Mynheer Swedlepipe? Shall I let it go for that? I leave it entirely to you.”
“No,” said Paul. “I gif’s sixty.”
“You try to git dat hoss, pudding-head,” cried the other; “I gif’s seventy guilders.”
It is needless to follow the course of the trade—to give the words which passed between the bidders—how Paul, forgetting that he was only bidding in jest, refused to stop when Boston winked at him, but bid higher! Affairs trembled in the balance. Ten Eyck looked at the horse and his rival, and swore in his inmost soul to have the beast, if it took every guilder from his purse. He bid higher, and while he cogitated, Boston had winked Paul into submission.
“One hundred and fifty guilders,” said Boston. “It’s a good pile. You don’t go any higher, Mynheer Swedlepipe?”
“Nein,” said Paul.
“Then you may have him, Ten Eyck. It’s as good a sell as you ever heard on, I guess.”
The last named individual counted out the money, bestrode the transformed beast, and rode away to his home, while Paul, falling prostrate upon the earth, hugged himself, and shouted with laughter. Boston, chinking the money in his purse, uttered a satisfied chuckle, and went his way.
The hawker did not stay in the settlement, though the sun was low in the forest, and the Indians were thick as the deer, and bloody as the panther. Once in the woods, and out of sight of the village, he deftly hid his pack beside a fallen tree, drew out a beautiful gun from its place of concealment, and assumed an active, erect attitude, much unlike the slouching gait which had marked his course in the village. He cast a keen glance about him, and begun to load his piece before he set forward on the trail. This done, he tightened his belt, took a hasty glance at the sky, and buried himself in the woods.
The forest path along which he journeyed was tangled, and covered by fallen leaves, in which his feet fell with a slight rustle. At times the deer started up from a thicket, and went crashing away. At others the brown bear went lumbering over the path, casting a surly glance over her shoulder at the strange intruder upon her native woods. The warning rattle of the venomous snake sounded in his ear; the howl of a distant panther was heard. Such were the sights and sounds of a Connecticut forest, in those early times.
The change in the man who trod the forest path was wonderful. No longer the peddler keen for a trade, and seeing only the main chance, but a sharp, vigilant woodman, ready for any emergency which might arise.
As he passed through a thick part of the woods, a confused sound came to his ears, as of a struggle among the dry leaves. Dashing aside the branches, with a hasty step he broke into an open place in the forest, and looked in upon a strange scene.
The glade was not empty. Two men lay upon the ground, engaged in a struggle for life or death. Their quick, panting breaths came to Boston’s ears. Drawing his knife, he rushed forward, shouting:
“Hold your hands! He who strikes another stroke will have me to fight.”
The two men rose slowly and sullenly to their feet, casting looks of hate at each other. One, however, recognizing Boston, extended a hand, giving him a cheerful welcome.
“But what means this, William Barlow? How is it that I find you brawling like a boy with a stranger, when you have weighty affairs to attend to? By my faith, I did not look for this at your hands!”
The person he addressed was young, and clad in the uniform of the early Connecticut soldiery. His form was erect, and his bearing that of a soldier. He bent down his eyes, wonderful as it may seem, at the words of the peddler.
“You are right, Boston, in saying that I had no right to quarrel. But it was forced upon me against my will. Yonder man will tell you that this quarrel is none of my seeking.”
The person of whom he spoke had stood upon his guard, drawing his sword, and expecting to fight both men when they had done with their conference. He, too, had the erect bearing of the soldier, and his dress was that of captain of the soldiers at Manhattan. His face was a study. Seen in repose, it was beautiful, for a man. But now, with his anger fresh upon him, it seemed the face of a fiend. This was Joseph Van Zandt, captain in the army of the governor at New Netherlands, a brave soldier, but an unscrupulous foe.
“If it will aid you,” said he, “I do not hesitate to say that I forced this quarrel upon Lieutenant Barlow.”
“So sure as my name is Boston Bainbridge,” said that worthy, “I could give you no worse punishment than to leave you in the hands of Willie Barlow. I have not the least doubt he would give a good account of you. But, it may not be. How came this quarrel about?”
“I met him here,” said Barlow, “and he talked in a friendly tone at first; but when I gave my name he drew upon me with the utmost fury.”
“Why was this, sir?” asked Boston, turning to the captain. “Can not men meet in the forest, but they must fight like dogs?”
“Ask me no questions. I do not recognize your right to do so. It is enough for me to know that the name of the man who stands by your side is so hateful to me that I am his enemy to the death.”
“You are over bold, sir,” said Boston, setting his teeth hard. “What hope have you, if we two set upon you together.”
“The hope of a man and a soldier,” replied Captain Van Zandt, quickly. “I may fall, or I may conquer. Set on!”
“I did not say we would attack you. We are peaceful men, and do not pick quarrels with every man whose name does not suit us.”
“Let him ask me why I hate the name he bears,” replied the other, “and I will tell him. That is, if he cares to know.”
“If you choose to tell,” said Willie, “I should like to hear; for, by my faith, I never offended you in the slightest degree.”
“I will tell you. Because you took advantage of your position as ambassador from the Plymouth Colony, and tried to win away from me my affianced wife, Theresa Van Curter.”
Willie took a forward step, and addressed the young man boldly:
“I am glad you have spoken,” said he. “We now understand each other. While I fought with you a few moments since, I was angry at myself, because I fought with a man with whom I had no quarrel. I am best pleased that you have told me what cause we have to be bad friends. And yet, I can not feel that it is necessary to fight. Let the one who can win the heart of Theresa Van Curter take her for a wife, and let the other do as best he may. If you win her, I shall bid you God-speed. If I win, you may do the same. Is not this the nobler way?”
“Such sickly philosophy may do for you Englishmen,” answered the other, coldly. “As for me, I am not of such blood. I love Theresa. She has been a guide to me through life—my leading star. I will not lose her now, when the time has come when she was promised to me. Will you give her up?”
“Not I. If I have any place in her heart, I would not yield it for any living man.”
“Be it so then. We are enemies from this hour. When we fight again it shall be where no man can come between. Do you intend to detain me, sir? I do not know your name.”
“Not at all. Go your way and leave us to go ours,” said Boston.
The captain turned hastily away, for it was now quite dark in the forest, and made his way to the river-side, where he expected to meet a party from the House of Good Hope, sent to meet him by Van Curter. The two men, being left alone in the forest, did not remain in the place where they stood, but hastened away to the river-side, by a different route. Here they entered one of the limestone caves, found on the river’s bank. The peddler lighted a pine torch. Then the two sat down to talk.
CHAPTER V.
BOSTON AS A MISCHIEF-MAKER.
Theresa had met the young Englishman on an embassay to Manhattan, as Captain Van Zandt had said. Their love had been a plant of quick growth, and her father learned too late that her heart was given to Willie. She had been betrothed in youth to young Van Zandt, the son of an old comrade in arms. Hence the knowledge made the fiery colonel particularly angry. In his rage, Van Curter had sent a messenger to Joseph, desiring his presence at Good Hope. Every thing being remarkably quiet in the Manhattan settlement, just then, the captain readily obtained leave of absence. While on his way to the House of Good Hope, by the river, he met the young lieutenant, who was evidently waiting for somebody, on the river’s bank. Retiring as the boat-load of Manhattaners approached, Barlow was followed into the forest by the captain. Not being a man to run from a Manhattaner, Barlow paused, and, as we have seen, closed in mortal combat.
It was the desire of Van Curter to hurry on the marriage by every means in his power. But, at present, his whole attention was turned to a project for driving the English from Windsor. He saw, with increasing fear, that the domineering Yankees were spreading more and more through the country, and that, unless checked by some means, they would soon possess the whole country. The transactions carried on by our English ancestors, of which the dealings of Boston Bainbridge was a fair type, were enough to drive that well-intentioned people stark mad. No wonder, therefore, that they concocted a plan for the possession of Windsor, on the river above Good Hope.
Captain Holmes had set up this post, as has been suggested, in direct opposition to the wishes of Van Curter. The dialogue which passed between them as the English sloop passed up the stream, was so characteristic of the two men, that we repeat it:
“Where would you go?” cried Van Curter.
“Up the river, to trade,” replied Holmes.
“Strike and stay!” shouted the commandant, “or I will fire into you.”
“Fire and be hanged,” returned Holmes. “The river is mine as much as your own.”
Van Curter thought better of it, and did not fire. The sloop passed up the stream, and founded the post which afterward awakened the Dutchman’s ire to such an extent.
It was night when Joseph Van Zandt arrived at Good Hope, and he went at once to the cabin of Van Curter. He had not retired, but sat alone at a table, by a flaring lamp, writing a dispatch to the governor. He started up in great joy at the sight of the captain, and held out both hands to him.
“Sit thee down, lad. Thou art welcome. How go things in the Manhattoes?”
“Very fairly. Can you say as much of this colony?”
“No. The Yankees advance step by step, and the time is not far off when we shall be driven entirely away, unless we do something ourselves. But, I have a plan in my mind, Joseph—I have a plan; and, faith, it is a good one. How long have you been on the way?”
“Four days. I should have been here ere now, but my horse got his foot into a stocking on the road, and broke it. I was forced to shoot it and take to the sound and river.”
“That is bad; but I think we can supply you. Ten Eyck bragged to-day, in the council, that he had the best horse in the colony. It ought to be, if he paid the price he says he did, which is a hundred and fifty guilders. You ought to have seen Paul Swedlepipe’s face while Ten Eyck told about that horse.”
“What? Do they keep up the old feud yet?”
“Stronger than ever, my dear Joseph. But, what puzzled me most was, that Paul seemed to work hard to refrain from laughing, when he ought to have felt more like crying. It looked suspicious to me.”
“Has any one else seen the horse?”
“Yes—several of the council. And they all agree that it is a good beast. Most wonderful of all, he was sold by a Yankee. Swedlepipe bid as high as a hundred and forty guilders before he would give up. But that a Yankee should sell a good horse! Who ever heard of such a thing?”
Joseph laughed at this, but he was not so far from Good Hope as not to know that Yankees did not sell good wares.
“We will see this wonderful beast to-morrow, and if he is any thing like what he is reported, I shall want him. Whom think you I met in the forest?”
“I could not guess.”
“You will hardly believe it. A man whom I never saw but once in my life, and whom I hate, for all that, with all my soul.”
“Who may that be?”
“William Barlow.”
Colonel Van Curter leaped to his feet. “I swear by the bones of my father, that if Boston Bainbridge dares to show his face again in Good Hope, I will crop his ears off close to his head, and turn him off.”
“Boston Bainbridge!”
“Ay.”
“That is the very man who came between us. You must know, then, that I followed this man Barlow into the woods, and soon had him at bay, curse him! We were down upon the earth, tearing at each other’s throats, so closely grappled that we could not use our swords, when this man rushed in and parted us, swearing to strike the one who made another stroke—a daring, resolute fellow, I saw at a glance.”
“You astonish me. It can not be the man I mean. The Bainbridge I knew is a sneaking dog of a hawker, who has made more mischief in Good Hope than any ten men I know. But he is a pitiful wretch, who will do almost any thing for money.”
“This man was as determined-looking a fellow as I ever saw in my life, I am certain; and looked as if a fight was meat and drink to him. And what is more, your friend Barlow deferred to him as to a superior.”
“It can not be that there are two. The fellow showed some spirit to-day, and all the information I got out of him did not amount to much. You may be right; it may be the hawker—confound him! But I am at a loss. Did he have his pack?”
“No. He was armed, though, with musket, knife and pistols, and looked an ugly customer.”
“Let it pass. As to the Boston Bainbridge who is known to me, we shall have something to say to each other when we next meet. If it is the one who is known to you, we may have something else to say to him. You say you quarreled with Barlow.”
“Yes. The very name of the fellow aroused me to rage. I struck him with my open hand in the face—and we fought. This Bainbridge came between; but it is a quarrel to the death. In the first burst, he spoke quite angrily to Barlow, as one who had a right to do it, and the young man appeared ashamed.”
“What can it mean?” said Van Curter, uneasily. “This fills me with doubts and fears which I can not fathom. Did you leave them together?”
“Yes, in the forest, a league or more from Good Hope.”
“It must be Bainbridge,” mused Van Curter. “He is the sworn friend of Barlow; and yet, the new character you give him is so utterly unlike the one he has borne, that I can’t understand it at all.”
“Let us speak of something else. Does Theresa know of my coming?”
“No; I thought it would be a pleasant surprise for her.”
Van Zandt set his teeth hard at the words, for he realized, only too painfully, that any thing like love for him was now foreign to the heart of Theresa. The old soldier knew that he was angry, and wisely allowed him his own time to answer. When the captain had controlled himself sufficiently to speak, he said:
“I have my fears upon the subject—I am afraid I shall never get my own. You have promised me the hand of Theresa; I have waited for it long years; but I have always feared that something would come between me and the promise. It has come.”
“Do you fear this Barlow?” asked the other, in some contempt. “Have you not an honored name—a name second to none in our own land? Have you not the most handsome face in the seven colonies? Bah!”
“You are old, Colonel Van Curter, and you do not know a woman’s heart, after all. I tell you that I have made woman a study; they claim to be influenced by personal beauty in man; but, put them to the test, and you will find that, after all, the most beautiful women make a choice of men who, though plain in person, are the only ones who can find the road to their hearts.”
“In truth, you may be right; but you may be the one who has the key to Theresa’s heart. You shall be, by heaven!”
“Would you force her to marry me against her inclination?”
“I would keep my word to your father, even if I had to use force.”
“I would not have her upon such terms,” said the young man. “She must be mine entirely, heart and hand; if it can not be so, I renounce her hand, and apply myself to the task of taking worthy vengeance upon the man who has dared to step in between me and the love of the woman I prize highest. I know him, I thank God. He can not escape me. Where is Theresa?”
“She has retired.”
“There will be a meeting, I am sure, between her and this Yankee. We must watch.”
“This is the work of Bainbridge; he has gone between them, carried letter after letter, and been the means of making her fancy stronger; he, too, has something which will draw him back to this place.”
“What is that?”
“Katrine.”
“Bah!”
“She is a beauty not to be despised, and her family is good—she is first cousin to Theresa.”
“Right, I forgot; but I have not seen her for years. Do you know that in coming up the river, I fancied I was followed by a canoe part of the way.”
“Indians?”
“I do not know.”
“Never mind; come nearer, and I will tell you my secret plans about Windsor and the English, whom I am determined to baffle and defeat.”
The men drew close together, and looked over the paper. As they did so a face rose slowly into view on the other side of the room, peering in at the open lattice. It was the face of Boston Bainbridge.
“You are sure no one listens?” asked Joseph.
“Ay; my men know better than to listen at the windows or doors of Jacob Van Curter; I would string them up to a swaying limb, or give them forty stripes, save one.”
“I thought I heard a sound, a moment since.”
“The girls, perhaps; open that door, and look into the kitchen.”
Joseph rose and opened the door; the kitchen was empty; the fire burned low upon the hearth, and the rays danced upon the dishes in the dresser.
“You heard the wind,” said Van Curter; “it is rising fast. It will rain to-night.”
“I am glad I got in safe before the storm. Hark to that.”
The wind was rising with a sullen and fast-increasing roar; in a few moments the rain begun to fall. Joseph stirred the fire with a feeling of enjoyment, and the two drew up to the table.
“You remember this Captain Holmes—my curse upon his head—who would not pause when I told him to strike and stay?” said Van Curter.
“I remember him well.”
“He commands this post at Windsor; if any thing would make me long to take the post more than another, it would be the fact that I hate him. To him we may trace the entrance of these Yankees into our midst.”
“Did you not invite them to settle?”
“Yes, fool that I was to do it; but I did not know them then as I do now. I would as soon have let in fiends from the pit.”
“Then they are not to blame for hanging on to their possessions. You should not have asked them here.”
“They have learned to despise us, because we are so easily taken in. They are right in that; a greater set of dunderheads than those under my command never congregated before. If it were not for two or three of my officers, my blockheads would have their teeth drawn in the night, and never know it.”
“What slander upon such men as the worthy Paul Swedlepipe and Mynheer Ten Eyck.”
“There you have a specimen. What can a man do who must be guided, in a manner, by the advice of such men as those? It is enough to make one give up in despair.”
“But they will fight, if it is necessary.”
“Yes; it is their only redeeming quality. They are too thick-headed to appreciate the danger. But to my plan. I shall march out with forty men in the night, and get near enough to Windsor to attack them early in the morning. We will take the fellows prisoners and send them to the nearest English post.”
“Very good; how many men can the English muster?”
“Not over twenty, and those we will take by surprise.”
“Captain Holmes is there.”
“Yes. His brother is next in command, and Barlow next. I should not care to fight them if they are on their guard.”
“I never heard of this brother of Holmes’.”
“He has never been in Good Hope; I do not know that I have seen him. He is represented as a man under forty, active, vigilant and acute—a man formed by nature for a life in the woods.”
“You describe such a man as I take this very Bainbridge to be.”
“You are mistaken; I know the man well; he may have taken the attitude of a brave man because they were two to one; but, in reality, he is one of the most egregious cowards upon the face of the earth.”
“This is pleasant news to come to a man’s ears,” muttered the peddler, lying perdu beneath the shelter of the eaves. “They say listeners never hear any good of themselves, and I am not inclined to doubt it; but go on—go on, the time will come to settle yet, and I will give you back that coward in your teeth. Phew! how the rain comes down.”
“The Windsor people are not in a very strong stockade, and I think I may succeed. I shall march on the afternoon of to-morrow.”
“Who will you leave here?”
“I don’t know certainly. We shall not be long gone, and I think one of my blockheads may be trusted for a day. Come, taste this aqua vitæ, which was sent to me from Manhattan by my worthy friend, Wilhelem Kieft, and then to bed, to be ready for the morning. ’Tis a wild night.”
They sat talking for some time over the liquor, and then went to their couches. Boston wrapped himself warmly in a wolf-skin robe which lay upon the porch, and lay down to rest; he slept two hours. When he arose, the storm was at its height, and he could move about the house with perfect impunity. Walking quickly to a window-lattice on the south, he gave a single tap upon it, and waited. The tap was answered from within, and the lattice was raised to allow Katrine to thrust out her head. She looked so provokingly sweet that Boston solaced himself with a kiss before a word was said.
“Impudence!” whispered the girl. “I shall close the lattice.”
“No you won’t, my dear. Where is Theresa?”
“Like your impudence to ask. She is in bed, and you ought to be in yours, instead of tramping about on such a night as this.”
“We have no time to talk. Go in and wake Theresa, and tell her to open her lattice in half an hour, for one she wots of will come to her before that time.”
“You are crazy, both of you. It is death for you to be near Good Hope to-night. Do you not know that Captain Van Zandt is here, and that he spares none who stand in his way?”
“Little care we,” replied the other, snapping his fingers, “for Captain Joseph Van Zandt. We know more of his movements than you think, Katrine. But get you gone, and tell Theresa that Willie is here. When you have done that, come back to me.”
“You speak sometimes like one born to command” said Katrine, looking at him fixedly. “If it should be so—if you should deceive me!”
“Katrine, you mistrust me. Have I ever given you cause?”
She was back in a moment, with one soft arm about his neck. “I trust you,” was all she said.
“I have a secret from you, my darling,” he said, returning her embrace. “But, take this to your heart—whatever your station, whatever mine, I love you entirely. Now, go.”
She opened the door which led into the room of Theresa. She found her awake, with her head bowed upon a table. Katrine was not so much a servant as a dear friend to Theresa, and she passed her arm about her kindly, as she asked why she was sad.
“He is here,” was the answer.
“Who?”
“Van Zandt.”
“I know that; but why should you fear him? Your lover will never see you forced to be his wife. I will not. My lover will not.”
“Alas, what can they do? Willie is far away.”
“Not so far as you may imagine. I heard a tapping at my window just now. I opened it, and who do you suppose was there?”
“Hans Drinker,” said Theresa, with a smile, for she knew that the worthy Dutchman persecuted poor Katrine to the verge of distraction.
“If I served you rightly,” said Katrine,“I should go back to my room, and not tell you a single word.”
“But you won’t. Who was it? Carl Anselm?”
“Be careful! It was Bainbridge.”
“I knew he was here. Did he say any thing about Willie?”
“He told me to bid you rise, and be at your lattice in half an hour, for Willie Barlow would then be there.”
Theresa clasped her hands in fervent thanksgiving.
“You have brought glad tidings, dear Katrine,” she said. “Sit with me until he comes. Ah, what is he doing in this frightful storm?”
“It is enough that he is here. You should have seen poor Boston. Wet—oh, so wet! Like one drownded cat.”
The two sat with clasped hands until a tap came at the lattice. Theresa rose and opened it softly.
“Who is it?” she whispered.
“Willie,” he replied. Hands and lips met. That hour could not be forgotten, in any after pain.
CHAPTER VI.
THE HUMAN COLLISION AND HORSE COLLAPSE.
The meeting between the lovers was long, and it was only the wise council of Boston which induced them at length to separate. He had moved away a little from the window, and was calling in a low tone upon Willie to make haste, when a chamber lattice was thrown rudely back, and a gun protruded. It was Captain Van Zandt who had heard voices.
“Come away,” cried Boston, now careless. “You will spoil all. Obey me, Sir Lieutenant!”
“How dare he speak in that way?” thought Katrine.
Willie, imprinting a farewell kiss upon the willing lips of Theresa, bounded away. A stream of fire leaped from the muzzle of the musket of Van Zandt. A mocking laugh came back in response. Without a moment’s hesitation, he leaped from the window, sword in hand, calling upon Van Curter, who was up and armed by this time, to follow. It is a maxim which all woodsmen should heed, not to follow an enemy too closely in the dark. But, an angry man is not apt to take maxims to heart. Van Zandt had recognized the voice of the peddler, and heard him call “Willie,” and knew full well who were the intruders and their business.
Boston did not run far. Reaching the edge of a little thicket, he paused, and waited for the captain, who was only a few feet behind, hurrying forward at his best pace; when Boston, making a single forward step, dealt a blow with such fullness and force, that the furious soldier went down like an ox under the ax of the butcher. No one, looking at the light frame of the peddler, would have imagined for a moment that his muscles were developed to such an extent. No sooner was the blow struck, than he grasped Willie by the arm and hurried him forward at a quick pace, leaving Van Zandt prostrate upon the earth.
“Have you hurt him badly?” inquired Willie.
“Oh, no. I hit him behind the ear in the way you wot of. I did not care to use my weapons.”
“You are right. What shall we do now? I am afraid you have betrayed yourself. You called out, ‘obey me!’ in a way that made me start.”
“Katrine suspects too, the little darling. I have promised to tell her the secret. She shall know it when the house of Good Hope is ours.”
“You have hope, then?”
“When I shall tell you what I have heard this night from the lips of Jacob Van Curter, you will understand why I have hope. But, we can not stay now. We must go to Windsor at once. We know the river, and our canoe is at hand.”
“I am ready to go.”
As they glided from the shore, Van Curter stumbled over the prostrate form of Joseph. This aroused the captain, and he staggered to his feet, making a weak attack upon his friend, who parried his blows with great ease.
“You are mad. It’s I, Van Curter.”
Van Zandt came to his senses.
“I believe I am crazy,” he said. “But what a blow. My head seems split asunder.”
“What did he strike you with? Ho, there, Hans! Bring the torch hither. What did he strike you with?”
“It seemed like a clinched hand. And it can not be that a human hand should have such power. I would sooner be kicked by a horse than take such another blow.”
“Do you know who struck you?”
“Not I; though when the blow came every sun, moon and star in a clear sky seemed to blaze close before my eyes. By my faith, I am dizzy yet.”
“I should think you were. Lean upon me, and let us return to the house. Do you know who they were?”
“Surely. Who should it be but the worshipful Lieutenant Barlow, and his friend Bainbridge. I tell you again that he is something more than he shows upon the outside. S’death, man, he called out to the lieutenant like a master, I can tell you, and he came at his call.”
“What was it all about?”
“I heard voices under my window, and listened. It was Theresa talking with Barlow. I threw open my window and called upon him to speak. But Bainbridge called to his comrade to come away, and I missed him—it was very dark.”
“By the bones of my father!” cried Van Curter. “Has it gone so far as that. Follow me.”
He strode into the house, and knocked heavily at his daughter’s door, ordering her to come forth. She did so, with her garments thrown loosely about her. She greeted the young man in a hesitating manner, which went to his heart.
“How is this?” said her father, harshly. “Who dares to come to Good Hope in the dead of night, to meet the daughter of a Van Curter? Where is your womanhood, girl? Can you think of this and not blush?”
Theresa had much of her father’s untamable spirit, and answered quickly:
“It is no shame to meet one whom I love! And I take no fear in saying that I love Willie Barlow.”
“Say you so? Am I bearded to my face by a child of mine? Look upon Joseph Van Zandt. You were promised to him long ago. He has waited long years until this hour. And now you—you, of all others, spit upon the contract of your father, and plight your faith to one of alien blood! While I live, it shall never be.”
Theresa did not lower her eyes, but met the angry orbs of her father with a full glance.
“Speak no more of Joseph Van Zandt. Joseph, I am very sorry that you have set your heart upon a thing which can never be. I do not love you. But, if report says true, you would not have far to go to find one who would be true to you in wedlock. But I love you not as a wife should love, and I never can be yours.”
Van Zandt looked at her a moment, the fierce anger in his heart blazing in his eyes. He had waited long years for Theresa—had seen her grow more beautiful, day by day, and now, the torture of hearing her say that she loved him not! He raised his clinched hand on high, and brought it down upon the table with a force which made the glasses ring again.
“God in his mercy keep him out of my sight, or I shall kill him,” he cried.
“Father!” she cried, “look upon the man you would have me marry. He is a murderer in his heart.”
“So am I,” her parent answered, moodily. “Girl, get you in. You shall wed Joseph, as I am your father.”
“I would not have it so,” said Joseph. “I marry no unwilling wife. But him—let him take care!”
“What would you do?” she half-screamed.
“Murder! You have described the feelings of my heart. If he cross not my path, well—he is safe. But, if I meet him, God do so to me, and more also, if both leave the ground alive!”
“He is mad,” she said.
“You have made me so—you, with your accursed beauty. Blame that, and nothing more.”
“Get you in, I say,” cried Van Curter. “Do you still tarry to madden him the more? Get to bed! As for you, Joseph, go to your room and try to get a little sleep. Remember that in the morning we prepare for the march.”
“You are right. Now she is gone, I am a man again. I tell you she maddens me. I did not mean to tell her that, when I spoke. Let him look to himself, the alien dog!”
“You will have the chance, Joseph, as we march against him, to do away with him forever. Come, be a man.”
“I am. You have seen me fight, and know my power. I shall do good service if it comes to blows.”
“Thanks. Go to your room and get a little sleep. You will need it. To-morrow we shall see Ten Eyck, and secure his horse for your service.”
“Will he sell it?”
“I shall give him command while we are gone. That will make him ready to do any thing. Good-night.”
Joseph went up to his room and sat at the open window. The rain drifted in his face, but he heeded it not. He could hear Van Curter tramping to and fro in his room, and the voices of Theresa and Katrine in low conversation below. Before morning, he dropped into an uneasy slumber, with his head upon the sill. He was waked by the sound of noisy preparation in the open space below the window. He sprung up at once, buckled his sword-belt about him, and went down. He met Theresa in the large room in which he had seen her the night before. Neither spoke a word; but the glance of mingled repulsion and fear upon the one side, and of deadly threatening upon the other, was of greater expression than a volume. He passed her quickly, with his spurs ringing upon the hard floor, and went out into the open space, or parade of the House of Good Hope. He was greeted by a cheer from those of the men who recognized him, for Captain Van Zandt was known far and near as a brave and skillful leader. He called to his side a slender youth, who was cleaning a gun in the corner of the parade. He had a strange face, sharp features, with thin, cruel lips, receding forehead, and small, glittering, deep-set eyes. The youth laid down the gun when called by the captain, and followed him from the stockade to a retired spot outside the works.
“Carl Anselm,” said the latter, stopping suddenly, and laying his hand impressively upon the shoulder of the young man, “do you owe me any thing?”
“A life!” said the boy, quickly.
“You have said often, Carl, that you would like to do me a service. I do not remind you of your indebtedness to me because I like to remind people of their obligations; but the time has come when I need your help.”
“I have waited long,” said the young man. “When I lay under the hand of the savage Mohawk, and you killed him, I swore to repay you for the life you gave me. You have made me happy. What would you have me do?”
“Do you know the road to the Nipmuck village of Wampset?”
“Yes; one of Wampset’s men was here but a day or two ago.”
“Is it far?”
“Twenty miles—so the brave said.”
“It can be done, then. Take your arms and go to the village; find the chief, Wampset, give him this wampum belt, and tell him that the sender calls upon him to meet him at the three hills above Windsor, at midnight, with all the men he can muster. Do not fear for yourself; there is no Indian who owns the sway of the Nipmucks or the Mohawks who would lay a hand in anger upon the man who wears that belt. Put it on.”
Carl encircled his waist with the wampum belt. “Shall I go now?” he asked.
“Yes, and make haste; you must have a horse. Ha, Paul Swedlepipe, come hither.”
That individual, who was passing in a great hurry, came up at the call.
“Where is that Narragansett pony you bought from the Yankee?”
“In my stable.”
“You must lend him to Carl. We are going on an expedition in which you are to have an important trust. Can he have the horse?”
“If you will be responsible for him, yes.”
“Go with him, Carl,” said the captain, turning away. “Do not stop a moment to talk. Kill any one who attempts to stay you. I know you are good and true. Good-by, and all luck to you.”
In a few moments Carl Anselm, with the wampum belt girt about his waist, rode out of Good Hope. The captain stepped to the side of his horse for a parting word:
“Do you know William Barlow, the man who was in Good Hope last night?”
“I have met him and know him perfectly by sight.”
“He is my enemy. Do you fear him?”
“I fear no man,” replied the youth, drawing himself up proudly. “What would you have me do?”
“I tell you he is my enemy. Is not that enough for thee? Say, shall he die, if you meet? Will you give him a grave in the forest?”
“If knives are sharp or bullets dig deep—if water can drown or fire burn, when we meet he shall die.”
“You are a friend indeed,” cried Joseph, grasping his hand. “Go out upon your duty, with my thanks for your kindness. And remember, that in me you always have a friend.”
They shook hands and parted, the young man riding swiftly forward upon his way, along the bank of the “Happy River,” while Joseph went back to the camp. On the way, he met Van Curter, who asked him to go with him to secure the horse of Ten Eyck.
That worthy was reposing in front of his house, smoking a pipe in great enjoyment. He greeted the approach of the two dignitaries with a nod of recognition, thinking in his heart how he would crow over Paul Swedlepipe, who could not boast of the honor of such a visit.
“Good-day, mynheer, good-day,” said Van Curter. “We have agreed to go out against Windsor to-day, and, after considerable discussion, my friend the captain and myself have agreed upon a person to take command of Good Hope during our absence.”
“Who is it?” asked Ten Eyck, watching the puff of smoke which ascended in spiral rings from his fair, long pipe.
“What would you say to Paul Swedlepipe?” asked the captain, with a touch of mischievous humor. “Would he be a good man for the place?”
“What! Paul Swedlepipe? Do you insult me? I would suggest that you go and get Hans Drinker’s boy, Jacob, and give him command, before you take Paul Swedlepipe. To be sure, little Jacob is a fool; but what of that? Paul is a fool, too.”
“Then you don’t think Paul would do?”
“Nix, no, NO!” he cried using all the negatives at his command.
“Well, we concluded, after due discussion, not to take Paul. What do you say to Hans Drinker?”
“He is a bigger fool than Jacob!”
“Then he won’t do; and, in fact, we didn’t think of having him. The man we have in our mind is one Ten Eyck!”
“Ha!” said he, without moving a muscle of his face, “that is sensible! Oh, Saint Nicholas,” he thought, “won’t I crow over that Paul Swedlepipe after this!” Then he added aloud: “How many men do you leave with us?”
“Five. You won’t need many, as our expedition must be kept secret. Mind that, and don’t blab.”
Ten Eyck nodded his head vigorously, and the captain came to the principal object of the visit. “You bought a horse yesterday?”
“Yaw,” said he.
“What did you give for him?”
“One hundred and fifty guilders.”
“Ah; the price is large. I want to see the horse. If he is good, I will give you a hundred and fifty.”
“I sells him den. I puys him,” he went on, now using broken English, as it was more in sympathy with the subject, “vor fear Paul Swedlepipe get him. Coom over unt see him.”
The two men followed to the place where the beast had spent the night. The reader will remember that a tremendous rain had fallen during the night. The horse had been shut up in a sort of corral of rails which, however, afforded little shelter.
To describe the puffed-up and vainglorious manner in which Ten Eyck approached the corral, would be in vain. He seemed to grow taller, and his head was thrown back to such a fearful extent that there seemed to be immediate danger of his falling over on his back. Those familiar with the ballad which some years since was the delight of the youngsters of this country and of Merry England, “Lord Bateman,” will remember the engraving representing that individual. Mynheer Ten Eyck, approaching the corral, was his exact representative. Mentally, he was crowing over his enemy at every step. They entered the corral by a bar which was set in holes in two posts, set upright, about eight feet apart. Ten Eyck put up the bar, lest the spirited beast should attempt to escape.
Where was he? There, shivering in one corner of the corral, was a strange animal, without tail or teeth, for he had dropped them both in the night; a hide streaked here and there with marks of the coloring-substance which Boston had used in the metamorphosis; with drooping head and dejected looks generally. Ten Eyck took in all at a glance. Sold! fearfully and irrecoverably by the Yankee, aided and abetted by Paul Swedlepipe!
“Where is your horse?” asked the captain. “Not this, I hope!”
“You have been cheated again,” cried Van Curter.
Ten Eyck glared from side to side for an object upon which to wreak his vengeance. In that unlucky moment Paul, who had heard in some way that Joseph intended to buy the horse, and had followed to see the fun, peeped over the rails. The woebegone face of his enemy met his eye. It was too much. He burst into a stentorian laugh. Ten Eyck turned, wrath blazing from his eyes, and rushed at his foe. Nothing loth, Paul tumbled into the inclosure and met him half-way. At any other time, Ten Eyck would have known better than to peril his fame in open battle. But, the last drop had been put into the pot of his wrath, and it boiled over. They met, like Ajax and Hector, in the center of the list, and great deeds were achieved, whereof Good Hope rung for many a day. As we have said, Paul was short and choleric, and ready for a fray. The strokes of the combatants fell thick and fast. Ten Eyck had armed himself, in hot haste, with the fallen tail of the cause of the quarrel. Paul had caught up a more hurtful weapon, a short cudgel, which he had found outside the corral. At him, Paul! At him, Ten Eyck! Now Hector! Now Ajax! It was the Battle of the Giants. The horse-tail swept the air with a whistling sound and lighted with stinging force upon the face of Paul. The cudgel cracked upon the crown of Ten Eyck, and twice brought him to his knee. The two lookers-on would not interfere, for they knew the quarrel had been fomenting for many years, and they hoped this would decide it.
Holding their sides with laughter, the two soldiers watched while the unequal fight went on—unequal because the weapon of Ten Eyck, beyond maddening Paul to new exertions, did no harm. At last, a well-directed blow brought the tall man to the ground.
As Paul rushed forward, ready, like ancient warriors, to fight for the body of his conquered foe, the captain held him back:
“Enough of this. Away to your duty, Paul. Leave him to us.”
Paul obeyed, and Ten Eyck rose from the ground, a dejected man—a sadly different one from him who had entered the corral. He was humbled in the dust. Not only had he been overreached by his hated foe in the bargain, but he was beaten in open battle. From this day, he dared not meet Paul Swedlepipe. The star of Ten Eyck had set forever!
They left the spot, as the captain did not desire to invest in horse-flesh of that kind. It was in vain that they attempted to console Ten Eyck. His self-respect was gone; he had been betrayed, beaten, sold!
“Cheer up, man, cheer up,” said the captain, slapping him upon the shoulder. “Paul didn’t do it. He never had the head for it at all. It was all the work of that scoundrel, Boston Bainbridge.”
“The lightning blast him!” roared Ten Eyck.
“If I catch that fellow,” said Van Curter, “I will keep my promise to him. I will strap him up to a swaying limb and give him forty stripes save one.”
“I imagine you will have to catch him first,” answered the younger man, setting his teeth hard. “I have to thank him for his interference when I met Barlow in the forest, as well as for the blow which I think came from his hand last night. Barlow is not cool enough to knock a man down who has a sword in his hand. He would have used the steel.”
“Hot blood, hot blood, like your own. How did you miss him, last night?”
“It was dark enough, the only light coming from a taper at the back of my room. No, I do not wonder that I missed him.”
“Where did you send Carl Anselm?”
“I thought I told you. In my Indian-fighting I made the friendship of Wampset, a sachem of the Nipmucks. He gave me a wampum belt, and promised that, if I needed his help, and would send or bring that belt to him, he would come to my aid with all the men at his command.”
“Ah, that is good; where shall we meet them?”
“At the three hills, near Windsor.”
“It is a good place. You must be satisfied with one of my horses.”
“It will do. Let us go in.”