"The first time I saw the boy, Jack Irons, he was about nine years old.
I was in Sir William Johnson's camp of magnificent Mohawk warriors at
Albany. Jack was so active and successful in the games, between the
red boys and the white, that the Indians called him 'Boiling Water.'
His laugh and tireless spirit reminded me of a mountain brook. There
was no lad, near his age, who could run so fast, or jump so far, or
shoot so well with the bow or the rifle. I carried him on my back to
his home, he urging me on as if I had been a battle horse and when we
were come to the house, he ran about doing his chores. I helped him,
and, our work accomplished, we went down to the river for a swim, and
to my surprise, I found him a well taught fish. We became friends and
always when I have thought of him, the words Happy Face have come to
me. It was, I think, a better nickname than 'Boiling Water,' although
there was much propriety in the latter. I knew that his energy given
to labor would accomplish much and when I left him, I repeated the
words which my father had often quoted in my hearing:
"'Seest thou a man diligent in his calling? He shall stand before
kings.'"
This glimpse of John Irons, Jr.--familiarly known as Jack Irons--is
from a letter of Benjamin Franklin to his wife.
Nothing further is recorded of his boyhood until, about eight years
later, what was known as the "Horse Valley Adventure" occurred. A full
account of it follows with due regard for background and color:
"It was the season o' the great moon," said old Solomon Binkus, scout
and interpreter, as he leaned over the camp-fire and flicked a coal out
of the ashes with his forefinger and twiddled it up to his pipe bowl.
In the army he was known as "old Solomon Binkus," not by reason of his
age, for he was only about thirty-eight, but as a mark of deference.
Those who followed him in the bush had a faith in his wisdom that was
childlike. "I had had my feet in a pair o' sieves walkin' the white
sea a fortnight," he went on. "The dry water were six foot on the
level, er mebbe more, an' some o' the waves up to the tree-tops, an'
nobody with me but this 'ere ol' Marier Jane [his rifle] the hull trip
to the Swegache country. Gol' ding my pictur'! It seemed as if the
wind were a-tryin' fer to rub it off the slate. It were a pesky wind
that kep' a-cuffin' me an' whistlin' in the briers on my face an'
crackin' my coat-tails. I were lonesome--lonesomer'n a he-bear--an'
the cold grabbin' holt o' all ends o' me so as I had to stop an' argue
'bout whar my bound'ry-lines was located like I were York State. Cat's
blood an' gun-powder! I had to kick an' scratch to keep my nose an'
toes from gittin'--brittle."
At this point, Solomon Binkus paused to give his words a chance "to
sink in." The silence which followed was broken only by the crack of
burning faggots and the sound of the night wind in the tall pines above
the gorge. Before Mr. Binkus resumes his narrative, which, one might
know by the tilt of his head and the look of his wide open, right eye,
would soon happen, the historian seizes the opportunity of finishing
his introduction. He had been the best scout in the army of Sir
Jeffrey Amherst. As a small boy he had been captured by the Senecas
and held in the tribe a year and two months. Early in the French and
Indian War, he had been caught by Algonquins and tied to a tree and
tortured by hatchet throwers until rescued by a French captain. After
that his opinion of Indians had been, probably, a bit colored by
prejudice. Still later he had been a harpooner in a whale boat, and in
his young manhood, one of those who had escaped the infamous massacre
at Fort William Henry when English forces, having been captured and
disarmed, were turned loose and set upon by the savages. He was a
tall, brawny, broad-shouldered, homely-faced man of thirty-eight with a
Roman nose and a prominent chin underscored by a short sandy throat
beard. Some of the adventures had put their mark upon his weathered
face, shaven generally once a week above the chin. The top of his left
ear was missing. There was a long scar upon his forehead. These were
like the notches on the stock of his rifle. They were a sign of the
stories of adventure to be found in that wary, watchful brain of his.
Johnson enjoyed his reports on account of their humor and color and he
describes him in a letter to Putnam as a man who "when he is much
interested, looks as if he were taking aim with his rifle." To some it
seemed that one eye of Mr. Binkus was often drawing conclusions while
the other was engaged with the no less important function of discovery.
His companion was young Jack Irons--a big lad of seventeen, who lived
in a fertile valley some fifty miles northwest of Fort Stanwix, in
Tryon County, New York. Now, in September, 1768, they were traveling
ahead of a band of Indians bent on mischief. The latter, a few days
before, had come down Lake Ontario and were out in the bush somewhere
between the lake and the new settlement in Horse Valley. Solomon
thought that they were probably Hurons, since they, being discontented
with the treaty made by the French, had again taken the war-path. This
invasion, however, was a wholly unexpected bit of audacity. They had
two captives--the wife and daughter of Colonel Hare, who had been
spending a few weeks with Major Duncan and his Fifty-Fifth Regiment, at
Oswego. The colonel had taken these ladies of his family on a hunting
trip in the bush. They had had two guides with them, one of whom was
Solomon Binkus. The men had gone out in the early evening after moose
and imprudently left the ladies in camp, where the latter had been
captured. Having returned, the scout knew that the only possible
explanation for the absence of the ladies was Indians, although no
peril could have been more unexpected. He had discovered by "the sign"
that it was a large band traveling eastward. He had set out by night
to get ahead of them while Hare and his other guide started for the
fort. Binkus knew every mile of the wilderness and had canoes hidden
near its bigger waters. He had crossed the lake on which his party had
been camping, and the swamp at the east end of it and was soon far
ahead of the marauders. A little after daylight, he had picked up the
boy, Jack Irons, at a hunting camp on Big Deer Creek, as it was then
called, and the two had set out together to warn the people in Horse
Valley, where Jack lived, and to get help for a battle with the savages.
It will be seen by his words that Mr. Binkus was a man of imagination,
but--again he is talking.
"I were on my way to a big Injun Pow-wow at Swegache fer Sir Bill--ayes
it were in Feb'uary, the time o' the great moon o' the hard snow. Now
they be some good things 'bout Injuns but, like young brats, they take
natural to deviltry. Ye may have my hide fer sole luther if ye ketch
me in an Injun village with a load o' fire-water. Some Injuns is
smart, an' gol ding their pictur's! they kin talk like a cat-bird. A
skunk has a han'some coat an' acts as cute as a kitten but all the
same, which thar ain't no doubt o' it, his friendship ain't wuth a dam.
It's a kind o' p'ison. Injuns is like skunks, if ye trust 'em they'll
sp'ile ye. They eat like beasts an' think like beasts, an' live like
beasts, an' talk like angels. Paint an' bear's grease, an' squaw-fun,
an' fur, an' wampum, an' meat, an' rum, is all they think on. I've et
their vittles many a time an' I'm obleeged to tell ye it's hard work.
Too much hair in the stew! They stick their paws in the pot an' grab
out a chunk an' chaw it an' bolt it, like a dog, an' wipe their hands
on their long hair. They brag 'bout the power o' their jaws, which I
ain't denyin' is consid'able, havin' had an ol' buck bite off the top
o' my left ear when I were tied fast to a tree which--you hear to
me--is a good time to learn Injun language 'cause ye pay 'tention
clost. They ain't got no heart er no mercy. How they kin grind up a
captive, like wheat in the millstuns, an' laugh, an' whoop at the sight
o' his blood! Er turn him into smoke an' ashes while they look on an'
laugh--by mighty!--like he were singin' a funny song. They'd be men
an' women only they ain't got the works in 'em. Suthin' missin'. By
the hide an' horns o' the devil! I ain't got no kind o' patience with
them mush hearts who say that Ameriky belongs to the noble red man an'
that the whites have no right to bargain fer his land. Gol ding their
pictur's! Ye might as well say that we hain't no right in the woods
'cause a lot o' bears an' painters got there fust, which I ain't
a-sayin' but what bears an' painters has their rights."
Mr. Binkus paused again to put another coal on his pipe. Then he
listened a moment and looked up at the rocks above their heads, for
they were camped in a cave at the mouth of which they had built a small
fire, in a deep gorge. Presently he went on:
"I found a heap o' Injuns at Swegache--Mohawks, Senekys, Onandogs an'
Algonks. They had been swappin' presents an' speeches with the French.
Just a little while afore they had had a bellerin' match with us 'bout
love an' friendship. Then sudden-like they tuk it in their heads that
the French had a sharper hatchet than the English. I were skeered, but
when I see that they was nobody drunk, I pushed right into the big
village an' asked fer the old Senecky chief Bear Face--knowin' he were
thar--an' said I had a letter from the Big Father. They tuk me to him.
"I give him a chain o' wampum an' then read the letter from Sir Bill.
It offered the Six Nations more land an' a fort, an' a regiment to
defend 'em. Then he give me a lot o' hedge-hog quills sewed on to
buckskin an' says he:
"'You are like a lone star in the night, my brother. We have stretched
out our necks lookin' fer ye. We thought the Big Father had forgot us.
Now we are happy. To-morrer our faces will turn south an' shine with
bear's grease.'
"Sez I: 'You must wash no more in the same water with the French. You
must return to The Long House. The Big Father will throw his great arm
eround you.'
"I strutted up an' down, like a turkey gobbler, an' bellered out a lot
o' that high-falutin' gab. I reckon I know how to shove an idee under
their hides. Ye got to raise yer voice an' look solemn an' point at
the stars. A powerful lot o' Injuns trailed back to Sir Bill, but they
was a few went over to the French. I kind o' mistrust thar's some o'
them runnygades behind us. They're 'spectin' to git a lot o' plunder
an' a horse apiece an' ride 'em back an' swim the river at the place o'
the many islands. We'll poke down to the trail on the edge o' the
drownded lands afore sunrise an' I kind o' mistrust we'll see sign."
Jack Irons was a son of the much respected John Irons from New
Hampshire who, in the fertile valley where he had settled some years
before, was breeding horses for the army and sending them down to Sir
William Johnson. Hence the site of his farm had been called Horse
Valley.
Mr. Binkus went to the near brook and repeatedly filled his old felt
hat with water and poured it on the fire. "Don't never keep no fire
a-goin' a'ter I'm dried out," he whispered, as he stepped back into the
dark cave, "'cause ye never kin tell."
The boy was asleep on the bed of boughs. Mr. Binkus covered him with
the blanket and lay down beside him and drew his coat over both.
"He'll learn that it ain't no fun to be a scout," he whispered with a
yawn and in a moment was snoring.
It was black dark when he roused his companion. Solomon had been up
for ten minutes and had got their rations of bread and dried venison
out of his pack and brought a canteen of fresh water.
"The night has been dark. A piece o' charcoal would 'a' made a white
mark on it," said Solomon.
"How do you know it's morning?" the boy asked as he rose, yawning.
"Don't ye hear that leetle bird up in the tree-top?" Solomon answered
in a whisper. "He says it's mornin' jest as plain as a clock in a
steeple an' that it's goin' to be cl'ar. If you'll shove this 'ere
meat an' bread into yer stummick, we'll begin fer to make tracks."
They ate in silence and as he ate Solomon was getting his pack ready
and strapping it on his back and adjusting his powder-horn.
"Ye see it's growin' light," he remarked presently in a whisper. "Keep
clost to me an' go as still as ye kin an' don't speak out loud
never--not if ye want to be sure to keep yer ha'r on yer head."
They started down the foot of the gorge then dim in the night shadows.
Binkus stopped, now and then, to listen for two or three seconds and
went on with long stealthy strides. His movements were panther-like,
and the boy imitated them. He was a tall, handsome, big-framed lad
with blond hair and blue eyes. They could soon see their way clearly.
At the edge of the valley the scout stopped and peered out upon it. A
deep mist lay on the meadows.
"I like day-dark in Injun country," he whispered. "Come on."
They hurried through sloppy footing in the wet grass that flung its dew
into their garments from the shoulder down. Suddenly Mr. Binkus
stopped. They could hear the sound of heavy feet splashing in the wet
meadow.
"Scairt moose, runnin' this way!" the scout whispered. "I'll bet ye a
pint o' powder an' a fish hook them Injuns is over east o' here."
It was his favorite wager--that of a pint of powder and a fish hook.
They came out upon high ground and reached the valley trail just as the
sun was rising. The fog had lifted. Mr. Binkus stopped well away from
the trail and listened for some minutes. He approached it slowly on
his tiptoes, the boy following in a like manner. For a moment the
scout stood at the edge of the trail in silence. Then, leaning low, he
examined it closely and quickly raised his hand.
"Hoofs o' the devil!" he whispered as he beckoned to the boy. "See
thar," he went on, pointing to the ground. "They've jest gone by. The
grass ain't riz yit. Wait here."
He followed the trail a few rods with eyes bent upon it. Near a little
run where there was soft dirt, he stopped again and looked intently at
the earth and then hurried back.
"It's a big band. At least forty Injuns in it an' some captives, an'
the devil an' Tom Walker. It's a mess which they ain't no mistake."
"I don't see why they want to be bothered with women," the boy remarked.
"Hostiges!" Solomon exclaimed. "Makes 'em feel safer. Grab 'em when
they kin. If overtook by a stouter force they're in shape fer a
dicker. The chief stands up an' sings like a bird--'bout the moon an'
the stars an' the brooks an' the rivers an' the wrongs o' the red man,
but it wouldn't be wuth the song o' a barn swaller less he can show ye
that the wimmen are all right. If they've been treated proper, it's
the same as proved. Ye let 'em out o' the bear trap which it has often
happened. But you hear to me, when they go off this way it's to kill
an' grab an' hustle back with the booty. They won't stop at
butcherin'!"
"I'm afraid my folks are in danger," said the boy as he changed color.
"Er mebbe Peter Boneses'--'cordin' to the way they go. We got to cut
eround 'em an' plow straight through the bush an' over Cobble Hill an'
swim the big creek an' we'll beat 'em easy."
It was a curious, long, loose stride, the knees never quite
straightened, with which the scout made his way through the forest. It
covered ground so swiftly that the boy had, now and then, to break into
a dog-trot in order to keep along with the old woodsman. They kept
their pace up the steep side of Cobble Hill and down its far slope and
the valley beyond to the shore of the Big Creek.
"I'm hot 'nough to sizzle an' smoke when I tech water," said the scout
as he waded in, holding his rifle and powder-horn in his left hand
above the creek's surface.
They had a few strokes of swimming at mid-stream but managed to keep
their powder dry.
"Now we've got jest 'nough hoppin' to keep us from gittin' foundered,"
said Solomon, as he stood on the farther shore and adjusted his pack.
"It ain't more'n a mile to your house."
They hurried on, reaching the rough valley road in a few minutes.
"Now I'll take the bee trail to your place," said the scout. "You cut
ercrost the medder to Peter Boneses' an' fetch 'em over with all their
grit an' guns an' ammunition."
Solomon found John Irons and five of his sons and three of his
daughters digging potatoes and pulling tops in a field near the house.
The sky was clear and the sun shining warm. Solomon called Irons aside
and told him of the approaching Indians.
"What are we to do?" Irons asked.
"Send the women an' the babies back to the sugar shanty," said Solomon.
"We'll stay here 'cause if we run erway the Boneses'll git their ha'r
lifted. I reckon we kin conquer 'em."
"How?"
"Shoot 'em full o' meat. They must 'a' traveled all night. Them
Injuns is tired an' hungry. Been three days on the trail. No time to
hunt! I'll hustle some wood together an' start a fire. You bring a
pair o' steers right here handy. We'll rip their hides off an' git the
reek o' vittles in the air soon as God'll let us."
"My wife can use a gun as well as I can and I'm afraid she won't go,"
said Irons.
"All right, let her hide somewhar nigh with the guns," said Solomon.
"The oldest gal kin go back with the young 'uns. Don't want no skirts
in sight when they git here."
Mrs. Irons hid in the shed with the loaded guns.
Ruth Irons and the children set out for the sugar bush. The steers
were quickly led up and slaughtered. As a hide ripper, Solomon was a
man of experience. The loins of one animal were cooking on turnspits
and a big pot of beef, onions and potatoes boiling over the fire when
Jack arrived with the Bones family.
"It smells good here," said Jack.
"Ayes! The air be gittin' the right scent on it," said Solomon, as he
was ripping the hide off the other steer. "I reckon it'll start the
sap in their mouths. You roll out the rum bar'l an' stave it in. Mis'
Bones knows how to shoot. Put her in the shed with yer mother an' the
guns, an' take her young 'uns to the sugar shanty 'cept Isr'el who's
big 'nough to help."
A little later Solomon left the fire. Both his eye and his ear had
caught "sign"--a clamor among the moose birds in the distant bush and a
flock of pigeons flying from the west.
"Don't none o' ye stir till I come back," he said, as he turned into
the trail. A few rods away he lay down with his ear to the ground and
could distinctly hear the tramp of many feet approaching in the
distance. He went on a little farther and presently concealed himself
in the bushes close to the trail. He had not long to wait, for soon a
red scout came on ahead of the party. He was a young Huron brave, his
face painted black and yellow. His head was encircled by a snake skin.
A fox's tail rose above his brow and dropped back on his crown. A
birch-bark horn hung over his shoulder.
Solomon stepped out of the bushes after he had passed and said in the
Huron tongue: "Welcome, my red brother, I hear that a large band o' yer
folks is comin' and we have got a feast ready."
The young brave had been startled by the sudden appearance of Solomon,
but the friendly words had reassured him.
"We are on a long journey," said the brave.
"And the flesh of a fat ox will help ye on yer way. Kin ye smell it?"
"Brother, it is like the smell of the great village in the Happy
Hunting-Grounds," said the brave. "We have traveled three sleeps from
the land of the long waters and have had only two porcupines and a
small deer to eat. We are hungry."
"And we would smoke the calumet of peace with you," said Solomon.
They walked on together and in a moment came in sight of the little
farm-house. The brave looked at the house and the three men who stood
by the fire.
"Come with me and you shall see that we are few," Solomon remarked.
They entered the house and barn and walked around them, and this, in
effect, is what Solomon said to him:
"I am the chief scout of the Great Father. My word is like that of old
Flame Tongue--your mighty chief. You and your people are on a bad
errand. No good can come of it. You are far from your own country. A
large force is now on your trail. If you rob or kill any one you will
be hung. We know your plans. A bad white chief has brought you here.
He has a wooden leg with an iron ring around the bottom of it. He come
down lake in a big boat with you. Night before last you stole two
white women."
A look of fear and astonishment came upon the face of the Indian.
"You are a son of the Great Spirit!" he exclaimed.
"And I would keep yer feet out o' the snare. Let me be yer chief. You
shall have a horse and fifty beaver skins and be taken to the border
and set free. I, the scout of the Great Father, have said it, and if
it be not as I say, may I never see the Happy Hunting-Grounds."
The brave answered:
"My white brother has spoken well and he shall be my chief. I like not
this journey. I shall bid them to the feast. They will eat and sleep
like the gray wolf for they are hungry and their feet are sore."
The brave put his horn to his mouth and uttered a wild cry that rang in
the distant hills. Then arose a great whooping and kintecawing back in
the bush. The young Huron went out to meet the band. Returning soon,
he said to Solomon that his chief, the great Splitnose, would have
words with him.
Turning to John Irons, Solomon said: "He's an outlaw chief. We must
treat him like a king. I'll bring 'em in. You keep the meat
a-sizzlin'!"
The scout went with the brave to his chief and made a speech of
welcome, after which the wily old Splitnose, in his wonderful
head-dress, of buckskin and eagle feathers, and his band in war-paint,
followed Solomon to the feast. Silently they filed out of the bush and
sat on the grass around the fire. There were no captives among
them--none at least of the white skin.
Solomon did not betray his disappointment. Not a word was spoken. He
and John Irons and his son began removing the spits from the fire and
putting more meat upon them and cutting the cooked roasts into large
pieces and passing it on a big earthen platter. The Indians eagerly
seized the hot meat and began to devour it. While waiting to be
served, some of the young braves danced at the fire's edge with short,
explosive, yelping, barking cries answered by dozens of guttural
protesting grunts from the older men, who sat eating or eagerly waiting
their turn to grab meat. It was a trying moment. Would the whole band
leap up and start a dance which might end in boiling blood and tiger
fury and a massacre? But the young Huron brave stopped them, aided no
doubt by the smell of the cooking flesh and the protest of the older
men. There would be no war-dance--at least not yet--too much hunger in
the band and the means of satisfying it were too close and tempting.
Solomon had foreseen the peril and his cunning had prevented it.
In a letter he has thus described the incident: "It were a band o'
cutthroat robbers an' runnygades from the Ohio country--Hurons, Algonks
an' Mingos an' all kinds o' cast off red rubbish with an old Algonk
chief o' the name o' Splitnose. They stuffed their hides with the meat
till they was stiff as a foundered hoss. They grabbed an' chawed an'
bolted it like so many hogs an' reached out fer more, which is the
differ'nce betwixt an Injun an' a white man. The white man gen'ally
knows 'nough to shove down the brakes on a side-hill. The Injun ain't
got no brakes on his wheels. Injuns is a good deal like white brats.
Let 'em find the sugar tub when their ma is to meetin' an' they won't
worry 'bout the bellyache till it comes. Them Injuns filled themselves
to the gullet an' begun to lay back, all swelled up, an' roll an' grunt
an' go to sleep. By an' by they was only two that was up an' pawin'
eround in the stew pot fer 'nother bone, lookin' kind o' unsart'tn an'
jaw weary. In a minute they wiped their hands on their ha'r an' lay
back fer rest. They was drunk with the meat, as drunk as a Chinee
a'ter a pipe o' opium. We white men stretched out with the rest on 'em
till we see they was all in the land o' nod. Then we riz an' set up a
hussle. Hones' we could 'a' killed 'em with a hammer an' done it
delib'rit. I started to pull the young Huron out o' the bunch. He
jumped up very supple. He wasn't asleep. He had knowed better than to
swaller a yard o' meat.
"Whar was the wimmen? I knowed that a part o' the band would be back
in the bush with them 'ere wimmen. I'd seed suthin' in the trail over
by the drownded lands that looked kind o' neevarious. It were like the
end o' a wooden leg with an iron ring at the bottom an' consid'able
weight on it. An Injun wouldn't have a wooden leg, least ways not one
with an iron ring at the butt. My ol' thinker had been chawin' that
cud all day an' o' a sudden it come to me that a white man were runnin'
the hull crew. That's how I had gained ground with the red scout I
took him out in the aidge o' the bush an' sez I:
"'What's yer name?'
"'Buckeye,' sez he.
"'Who's the white man that's with ye?'
"'Mike Harpe.'
"'Are the white wimmin with him?'
"'Yes.'
"'How many Injuns?'
"Two.'
"'What's yer signal o' victory?'
"'The call o' the moose.'
"'Now, Buckeye, you come with us,' I sez.
"I knowed that the white man were runnin' the hull party an' I itched
to git holt o' him. Gol ding his pictur'! He'd sent the Injuns on
ahead fer to do his dirty work. The Ohio country were full o' robber
whelps which I kind o' mistrusted he were one on 'em who had raked up
this 'ere band o' runnygades an' gone off fer plunder. We got holt o'
most o' their guns very quiet, an' I put John Irons an' two o' his boys
an' Peter Bones an' his boy Isr'el an' the two women with loaded guns
on guard over 'em. If any on 'em woke up they was to ride the
nightmare er lay still. Jack an' me an' Buckeye sneaked back up the
trail fer 'bout twenty rod with our guns, an' then I told the young
Injun to shoot off the moose call. Wall, sir, ye could 'a' heerd it
from Albany to Wing's Falls. The answer come an' jest as I 'spected,
'twere within a quarter o' a mile. I put Jack erbout fifty feet
further up the trail than I were, an' Buckeye nigh him, an' tol 'em
what to do. We skootched down in the bushes an' heerd 'em comin'!
Purty soon they hove in sight--two Injuns, the two wimmin captives an'
a white man--the wust-lookin' bulldog brute that I ever seen--stumpin'
erlong lively on a wooden leg, with a gun an' a cane. He had a broad
head an' a big lop mouth an' thick lips an' a long, red, warty nose an'
small black eyes an' a growth o' beard that looked like hog's bristles.
He were stout built. Stood 'bout five foot seven. Never see sech a
sight in my life. I hopped out afore 'em an' Jack an' Buckeye on their
heels. The Injun had my ol' hanger.
"'Drop yer guns,' says I.
"The white man done as he were told. I spoke English an' mebbe them
two Injuns didn't understan' me. We'll never know. Ol' Red Snout
leaned over to pick up his gun, seein' as we'd fired ours. There was a
price on his head an' he'd made up his mind to fight. Jack grabbed
him. He were stout as a lion an' tore 'way from the boy an' started to
pullin' a long knife out o' his boot leg. Jack didn't give him time.
They had it hammer an' tongs. Red Snout were a reg'lar fightin' man.
He jest stuck that 'ere stump in the ground an' braced ag'in' it an'
kep' a-slashin' an' jabbin' with his club cane an' yellin' an' cussin'
like a fiend o' hell. He knocked the boy down an' I reckon he'd 'a'
mellered his head proper if he'd 'a' been spryer on his pins. But Jack
sprung up like he were made o' Injy rubber. The bulldog devil had
drawed his long knife. Jack were smart. He hopped behind a tree.
Buckeye, who hadn't no gun, was jumpin' fer cover. The peg-leg cuss
swore a blue streak an' flung the knife at him. It went cl'ar through
his body an' he fell on his face an' me standin' thar loadin' my gun.
I didn't know but he'd lick us all. But Jack had jumped on him 'fore
he got holt o' the knife ag'in.
"I thought sure he'd floor the boy an' me not quite loaded, but Jack
were as spry as a rat terrier. He dodged an' rushed in an' grabbed
holt o' the club an' fetched the cuss a whack in the paunch with his
bare fist, an' ol' Red Snout went down like a steer under the ax.
"'Look out! there's 'nother man comin',' the young womern hollered.
"She needn't 'a' tuk the trouble 'cause afore she spoke I were lookin'
at him through the sight o' my ol' Marier which I'd managed to git it
loaded ag'in. He were runnin' towards me. He tuk jest one more step,
if I don't make no mistake.
"The ol' brute that Jack had knocked down quivered an' lay still a
minit an' when he come to, we turned him, eround an' started him
towards Canady an' tol' him to keep a-goin'! When he were 'bout ten
rods off, I put a bullet in his ol' wooden leg fer to hurry him erlong.
So the wust man-killer that ever trod dirt got erway from us with only
a sore belly, we never knowin' who he were. I wish I'd 'a' killed the
cuss, but as 'twere, we had consid'able trouble on our hands. Right
erway we heard two guns go off over by the house. I knowed that our
firin' had prob'ly woke up some o' the sleepers. We pounded the ground
an' got thar as quick as we could. The two wimmen wa'n't fur behind.
They didn't cocalate to lose us--you hear to me. Two young braves had
sprung up an' been told to lie down ag'in. But the English language
ain't no help to an Injun under them surcumstances. They don't
understan' it an' thar ain't no time when ignerunce is more costly.
They was some others awake, but they had learnt suthin'. They was
keepin' quiet, an' I sez to 'em:
"'If ye lay still ye'll all be safe. We won't do ye a bit o' harm.
You've got in bad comp'ny, but ye ain't done nothin' but steal a pair
o' wimmen. If ye behave proper from now on, ye'll be sent hum.'
"We didn't have no more trouble with them. I put one o' Boneses' boys
on a hoss an' hustled him up the valley fer help. The wimmen captives
was bawlin'. I tol' 'em to straighten out their faces an' go with Jack
an' his father down to Fort Stanwix. They were kind o' leg weary an'
excited, but they hadn't been hurt yit. Another day er two would 'a'
fixed 'em. Jack an' his father an' mother tuk 'em back to the pasture
an' Jack run up to the barn fer ropes an' bridles. In a little while
they got some hoofs under 'em an' picked up the childern an' toddled
off. I went out in the bush to find Buckeye an' he were dead as the
whale that swallered Jonah."
So ends the letter of Solomon Binkus.
Jack Irons and his family and that of Peter Bones--the boys and girls
riding two on a horse--with the captives filed down the Mohawk trail.
It was a considerable cavalcade of twenty-one people and twenty-four
horses and colts, the latter following.
Solomon Binkus and Peter Bones and his son Israel stood on guard until
the boy John Bones returned with help from the upper valley. A dozen
men and boys completed the disarming of the band and that evening set
out with them on the south trail.
2
It is doubtful if this history would have been written but for an
accidental and highly interesting circumstance. In the first party
young Jack Irons rode a colt, just broken, with the girl captive, now
happily released. The boy had helped every one to get away; then there
seemed to be no ridable horse for him. He walked for a distance by the
stranger's mount as the latter was wild. The girl was silent for a
time after the colt had settled down, now and then wiping tears from
her eyes. By and by she asked:
"May I lead the colt while you ride?"
"Oh, no, I am not tired," was his answer.
"I want to do something for you."
"Why?"
"I am so grateful. I feel like the King's cat. I am trying to express
my feelings. I think I know, now, why the Indian women do the
drudgery."
As she looked at Him her dark eyes were very serious.
"I have done little," said he. "It is Mr. Binkus who rescued you. We
live in a wild country among savages and the white folks have to
protect each other. We're used to it."
"I never saw or expected to see men like you," she went on. "I have
read of them in books, but I never hoped to see them and talk to them.
You are like Ajax and Achilles."
"Then I shall say that you are like the fair lady for whom they fought."
"I will not ride and see you walking."
"Then sit forward as far as you can and I will ride with you," he
answered.
In a moment he was on the colt's back behind her. She was a comely
maiden. An authority no less respectable than Major Duncan has written
that she was a tall, well shaped, fun loving girl a little past sixteen
and good to look upon, "with dark eyes and auburn hair, the latter long
and heavy and in the sunlight richly colored"; that she had slender
fingers and a beautiful skin, all showing that she had been delicately
bred. He adds that he envied the boy who had ridden before and behind
her half the length of Tryon County.
It was a close association and Jack found it so agreeable that he often
referred to that ride as the most exciting adventure of his life.
"What is your name?" he asked.
"Margaret Hare," she answered.
"How did they catch you?"
"Oh, they came suddenly and stealthily, as they do in the story books,
when we were alone in camp. My father and the guides had gone out to
hunt."
"Did they treat you well?"
"The Indians let us alone, but the two white men annoyed and frightened
us. The old chief kept us near him."
"The old chief knew better than to let any harm come to you until they
were sure of getting away with their plunder."
"We were in the valley of death and you have led us out of it. I am
sure that I do not look as if I were worth saving. I suppose that I
must have turned into an old woman. Is my hair white?"
"No. You are the best-looking girl I ever saw," he declared with
rustic frankness.
"I never had a compliment that pleased me so much," she answered, as
her elbows tightened a little on his hands which were clinging to her
coat. "I almost loved you for what you did to the old villain. I saw
blood on the side of your head. I fear he hurt you?"
"He jabbed me once. It is nothing."
"How brave you were!"
"I think I am more scared now than I was then," said Jack.
"Scared! Why?"
"I am not used to girls except my sisters."
She laughed and answered:
"And I am not used to heroes. I am sure you can not be so scared as I
am, but I rather enjoy it. I like to be scared--a little. This is so
different."
"I like you," he declared with a laugh.
"I feared you would not like an English girl. So many North Americans
hate England."
"The English have been hard on us."
"What do you mean?"
"They send us governors whom we do not like; they make laws for us
which we have to obey; they impose hard taxes which are not just and
they will not let us have a word to say about it."
"I think it is wrong and I'm going to stand up for you," the girl
answered.
"Where do you live?" he asked.
"In London. I am an English girl, but please do not hate me for that.
I want to do what is right and I shall never let any one say a word
against Americans without taking their part."
"That's good," the boy answered. "I'd love to go to London."
"Well, why don't you?"
"It's a long way off."
"Do you like good-looking girls?"
"I'd rather look at them than eat."
"Well, there are many in London."
"One is enough," said Jack.
"I'd love to show them a real hero."
"Don't call me that. If you would just call me Jack Irons I'd like it
better. But first you'll want to know how I behave. I am not a
fighter."
"I am sure that your character is as good as your face."
"Gosh! I hope it ain't quite so dark colored," said Jack.
"I knew all about you when you took my hand and helped me on the
pony--or nearly all. You are a gentleman."
"I hope so."
"Are you a Presbyterian?"
"No--Church of England."
"I was sure of that. I have seen Indians and Shakers, but I have never
seen a Presbyterian."
When the sun was low and the company ahead were stopping to make a camp
for the night, the boy and girl dismounted. She turned facing him and
asked:
"You didn't mean it when you said that I was good-looking--did you?"
The bashful youth had imagination and, like many lads of his time, a
romantic temperament and the love of poetry. There were many books in
his father's home and the boy had lived his leisure in them. He
thought a moment and answered:
"Yes, I think you are as beautiful as a young doe playing in the
water-lilies."
"And you look as if you believed yourself," said she. "I am sure you
would like me better if I were fixed up a little."
"I do not think so."
"How much better a boy's head looks with his hair cut close like yours.
Our boys have long hair. They do not look so much like--men."
"Long hair is not for rough work in the bush," the boy remarked.
"You really look brave and strong. One would know that you could do
things."
"I've always had to do things."
They came up to the party who had stopped to camp for the night. It
was a clear warm evening. After they had hobbled the horses in a near
meadow flat, Jack and his father made a lean-to for the women and
children and roofed it with bark. Then they cut wood and built a fire
and gathered boughs for bedding. Later, tea was made and beefsteaks
and bacon grilled on spits of green birch, the dripping fat being
caught on slices of toasting bread whereon the meat was presently
served.
The masterful power with which the stalwart youth and his father swung
the ax and their cunning craftsmanship impressed the English woman and
her daughter and were soon to be the topic of many a London tea party.
Mrs. Hare spoke of it as she was eating her supper.
"It may surprise you further to learn that the boy is fairly familiar
with the Aeneid and the Odes of Horace and the history of France and
England," said John Irons.
"That is the most astonishing thing I have ever heard!" she exclaimed.
"How has he done it?"
"The minister was his master until we went into the bush. Then I had
to be farmer and school-teacher. There is a great thirst for learning
in this New World."
"How do you find time for it?"
"Oh, we have leisure here--more than you have. In England even your
wealthy young men are over-worked. They dine out and play cards until
three in the morning and sleep until midday. Then luncheon and the
cock fight and tea and Parliament! The best of us have only three
steady habits. We work and study and sleep."
"And fight savages," said the woman.
"We do that, sometimes, but it is not often necessary. If it were not
for white savages, there would be no red ones. You would find America
a good country to live in."
"At least I hope it will be good to sleep in this night," the woman
answered, yawning. "Dreamland is now the only country I care for."
The ladies and children, being near spent by the day's travel and
excitement, turned in soon after supper. The men slept on their
blankets, by the fire, and were up before daylight for a dip in the
creek near by. While they were getting breakfast, the women and
children had their turn at the creekside.
That day the released captives were in better spirits. Soon after noon
the company came to a swollen river where the horses had some swimming
to do. The older animals and the following colts went through all
right, but the young stallion which Jack and Margaret were riding,
began to rear and plunge. The girl in her fright jumped off his back
in swift water and was swept into the rapids and tumbled about and put
in some danger before Jack could dismount and bring her ashore.
"You have increased my debt to you," she said, when at last they were
mounted again. "What a story this is! It is terribly exciting."
"Getting into deeper water," said Jack. "I'm not going to let you
spoil it by drowning."
"I wonder what is coming next," said she.
"I don't know. So far it's as good as _Robinson Crusoe_."
"With a book you can skip and see what happens," she laughed. "But we
shall have to read everything in this story. I'd love to know all
about you."
He told her with boyish frankness of his plans which included learning
and statesmanship and a city home. He told also of his adventures in
the forest with his father.
Meanwhile, the elder John Irons and Mrs. Hare were getting acquainted
as they rode along. The woman had been surprised by the man's intimate
knowledge of English history and had spoken of it.
"Well, you see my wife is a granddaughter of Horatio Walpole of
Wolterton and my mother was in a like way related to Thomas Pitt so you
see I have a right to my interest in the history of the home land,"
said John Irons.
"You have in your veins some of the best blood of England and so I am
sure that you must be a loyal subject of the King," Mrs. Hare remarked.
"No, because I think this German King has no share in the spirit of his
country," Irons answered. "Our ancient respect for human rights and
fair play is not in this man."
He presented his reasons for the opinion and while the woman made no
answer, she had heard for the first time the argument of the New World
and was impressed by it.
Late in the day they came out on a rough road, faring down into the
settled country and that night they stopped at a small inn. At the
supper table a wizened old woman was telling fortunes in a tea cup.
Miss Hare and her mother drained their cups and passed them to the old
woman. The latter looked into the cup of the young lady and
immediately her tongue began to rattle.
"Two ways lie before you," she piped in a shrill voice. "One leads to
happiness and many children and wealth and a long life. It is steep
and rough at the beginning and then it is smooth and peaceful. Yes.
It crosses the sea. The other way is smooth at the start and then it
grows steep and rough and in it I see tears and blood and dark clouds
and, do you see that?" she demanded with a look of excitement, as she
pointed into the cup. "It is a very evil thing. I will tell you no
more."
The wizened old woman rose and, with a determined look in her face,
left the room.
Mrs. Hare and her daughter seemed to be much troubled by the vision of
the fortune-teller.
"I hope you do not believe in that kind of rubbish," John Irons
remarked.
"I believe implicitly in the gift of second sight," said Mrs. Hare.
"In England women are so impatient to know their fortunes that they
will not wait upon Time, and the seers are prosperous."
"I have no faith in it," said Mr. Irons. "What she said might apply to
the future of any young person. Undoubtedly there are two ways ahead
of your daughter and perhaps more. Each must choose his own way wisely
or come to trouble. It is the ancient law."
They rode on next morning in a rough road between clearings in the
forest, the boy and girl being again together on the colt's back, she
in front.
"You did not have your fortune told," said Miss Margaret.
"It _has_ been told," Jack answered. "I am to be married in England to
a beautiful young lady. I thought that sounded well and that I had
better hold on to it. I might go further and fare worse."
"Tell me the kind of girl you would fancy."
"I wouldn't dare tell you."
"Why?"
"For fear it would spoil my luck."
They rode on with light hearts under a clear sky, their spirits playing
together like birds in the sunlight, touching wings and then flying
apart, until it all came to a climax quite unforeseen. The story has
been passed from sire to son and from mother to daughter in a certain
family of central New York and there are those now living who could
tell it. These two were young and beautiful and well content with each
other, it is said. So it would seem that Fate could not let them alone.
"We are near our journey's end," said he, by and by.
"Oh, then, let us go very slowly," she urged.
Another step and they had passed the hidden gate between reality and
enchantment. It would appear that she had spoken the magic words which
had opened it. They rode, for a time, without further speech, in a
land not of this world, although, in some degree, familiar to the best
of its people. Only they may cross that border who have kept much of
the innocence of childhood and felt the delightful fear of youth that
was in those two--they only may know the great enchantment. Does it
not make an undying memory and bring to the face of age, long
afterward, the smile of joy and gratitude?
The next word? What should it be? Both wondered and held their
tongues for fear--one can not help thinking--and really they had little
need of words. The peal of a hermit thrush filled the silence with its
golden, largo chime and overtones and died away and rang out again and
again. That voice spoke for them far better than either could have
spoken, and they were content.
"There was no voice on land or sea so fit for the hour and the ears
that heard it," she wrote, long afterward, in a letter.
They must have felt it in the longing of their own hearts and, perhaps,
even a touch of the pathos in the years to come. They rode on in
silence, feeling now the beauty of the green woods. It had become a
magic garden full of new and wonderful things. Some power had entered
them and opened their eyes. The thrush's song grew fainter in the
distance. The boy was first to speak.
"I think that bird must have had a long flight sometime," he said.
"Why?"
"I am sure that he has heard the music of Paradise. I wonder if you
are as happy as I am."
"I was never so happy," she answered.
"What a beautiful country we are in! I have forgotten all about the
danger and the hardship and the evil men. Have you ever seen any place
like it?"
"No. For a time we have been riding in fairyland."
"I know why," said the boy.
"Why?"
"It is because we are riding together. It is because I see you."
"Oh, dear! I can not see _you_. Let us get off and walk," she
proposed.
They dismounted.
"Did you mean that honestly?"
"Honestly," he answered.
She looked up at him and put her hand over her mouth.
"I was going to say something. It would have been most unmaidenly,"
she remarked.
"There's something in me that will not stay unsaid. I love you," he
declared.
She held up her hand with a serious look in her eyes. Then, for a
moment, the boy returned to the world of reality.
"I am sorry. Forgive me. I ought not to have said it," he stammered.
"But didn't you really mean it?" she asked with troubled eyes.
"I mean that and more, but I ought not to have said it now. It isn't
fair. You have just escaped from a great danger and have got a notion
that you are in debt to me and you don't know much about me anyhow."
She stood in his path looking up at him.
"Jack," she whispered. "Please say it again."
No, it was not gone. They were still in the magic garden.
"I love you and I wish this journey could go on forever," he said.
She stepped closer and he put his arm around her and kissed her lips.
She ran away a few steps. Then, indeed, they were back on the familiar
trail in the thirty-mile bush. A moose bird was screaming at them.
She turned and said:
"I wanted you to know but I have said nothing. I couldn't. I am under
a sacred promise. You are a gentleman and you will not kiss me or
speak of love again until you have talked with my father. It is the
custom of our country. But I want you to know that I am very happy."
"I don't know how I dared to say and do what I did, but I couldn't help
it"
"I couldn't help it either. I just longed to know if you dared."
"The rest will be in the future--perhaps far in the future."
His voice trembled a little.
"Not far if you come to me, but I can wait--I will wait." She took his
hand as they were walking beside each other and added: "_For you_."
"I, too, will wait," he answered, "and as long as I have to."
Mrs. Hare, walking down the trail to meet them, had come near. Their
journey out of the wilderness had ended, but for each a new life had
begun.
The husband and father of the two ladies had reached the fort only an
hour or so ahead of the mounted party and preparations were being made
for an expedition to cut off the retreat of the Indians. He was known
to most of his friends in America only as Colonel Benjamin Hare--a
royal commissioner who had come to the colonies to inspect and report
upon the defenses of His Majesty. He wore the uniform of a Colonel of
the King's Guard. There is an old letter of John Irons which says that
he was a splendid figure of a man, tall and well proportioned and about
forty, with dark eyes, his hair and mustache just beginning to show
gray.
"I shall not try here to measure my gratitude," he said to Mr. Irons.
"I will see you to-morrow."
"You owe me nothing," Irons answered. "The rescue of your wife and
daughter is due to the resourceful and famous scout--Solomon Binkus."
"Dear old rough-barked hickory man!" the Colonel exclaimed. "I hope to
see him soon."
He went at once with his wife and daughter to rooms in the fort. That
evening he satisfied himself as to the character and standing of John
Irons, learning that he was a patriot of large influence and
considerable means.
The latter family and that of Peter Bones were well quartered in tents
with a part of the Fifty-Fifth Regiment then at Fort Stanwix. Next
morning Jack went to breakfast with Colonel Hare and his wife and
daughter in their rooms, after which the Colonel invited the boy to
take a walk with him out to the little settlement of Mill River. Jack,
being overawed, was rather slow in declaring himself and the Colonel
presently remarked:
"You and my daughter seem to have got well acquainted."
"Yes, sir; but not as well as I could wish," Jack answered. "Our
journey ended too soon. I love your daughter, sir, and I hope you will
let me tell her and ask her to be my wife sometime."
"You are both too young," said the Colonel. "Besides you have known
each other not quite three days and I have known you not as many hours.
We are deeply grateful to you, but it is better for you and for her
that this matter should not be hurried. After a year has passed, if
you think you still care to see each other, I will ask you to come to
England. I think you are a fine, manly, brave chap, but really you
will admit that I have a right to know you better before my daughter
engages to marry you."
Jack freely admitted that the request was well founded, albeit he
declared, frankly, that he would like to be got acquainted with as soon
as possible.
"We must take the first ship back to England," said the Colonel. "You
are both young and in a matter of this kind there should be no haste.
If your affection is real, it will be none the worse for a little
keeping."
Solomon Binkus and Peter and Israel and John Bones and some settlers
north of Horse Valley arrived next day with the captured Indians, who,
under a military guard, were sent on to the Great Father at Johnson
Castle.
Colonel Hare was astonished that neither Solomon Binkus nor John Irons
nor his son would accept any gift for the great service they had done
him.
"I owe you more than I can ever pay," he said to the faithful Binkus.
"Money would not be good enough for your reward."
Solomon stepped close to the great man and said in a low tone:
"Them young 'uns has growed kind o' love sick an' I wouldn't wonder. I
don't ask only one thing. Don't make no mistake 'bout this 'ere boy.
In the bush we have a way o' pickin' out men. We see how they stan' up
to danger an' hard work an' goin' hungry. Jack is a reg'lar he-man. I
know 'em when I see 'em, which--it's a sure fact--I've seen all kinds.
He's got brains an' courage, an' a tough arm an' a good heart. He'd
die fer a friend any day. Ye kin't do no more. So don't make no
mistake 'bout him. He ain't no hemlock bow. I cocalate there ain't no
better man-timber nowhere--no, sir, not nowhere in this world--call it
king er lord er duke er any name ye like. So, sir, if ye feel like
doin' suthin' fer me--which I didn't never expect it, when I done what
I did--I'll say be good to the boy. You'd never have to be 'shamed o'
him."
"He's a likely lad," said Colonel Hare. "And I am rather impressed by
your words, although they present a view that is new to me. We shall
be returning soon and I dare say they will presently forget each other,
but if not, and he becomes a good man--as good a man as his father--let
us say--and she should wish to marry him, I would gladly put her hand
in his."
A letter of the handsome British officer to his friend, Doctor Benjamin
Franklin, reviews the history of this adventure and speaks of the
learning, intelligence and agreeable personality of John Irons. Both
Colonel and Mrs. Hare liked the boy and his parents and invited them to
come to England, although the latter took the invitation as a mere mark
of courtesy.
At Fort Stanwix, John Irons sold his farm and house and stock to Peter
Bones and decided to move his family to Albany where he could educate
his children. Both he and his wife had grown weary of the loneliness
of the back country, and the peril from which they had been delivered
was a deciding factor. So it happened that the Irons family and
Solomon went to Albany by bateaux with the Hares. It was a delightful
trip in good autumn weather in which Colonel Hare has acknowledged that
both he and his wife acquired a deep respect "for these sinewy, wise,
upright Americans, some of whom are as well learned, I should say, as
most men you would meet in London."
They stopped at Schenectady, landing in a brawl between Whigs and
Tories which soon developed into a small riot over the erection of a
liberty pole. Loud and bitter words were being hurled between the two
factions. The liberty lovers, being in much larger force, had erected
the pole without violent opposition.
"Just what does this mean?" the Colonel asked John Irons.
"It means that the whole country is in a ferment of dissatisfaction,"
said Irons. "We object to being taxed by a Parliament in which we are
not represented. The trouble should be stopped not by force but by
action that will satisfy our sense of injustice--not a very difficult
thing. A military force, quartered in Boston, has done great mischief."
"What liberty do you want?"
"Liberty to have a voice in the selection of our governors and
magistrates and in the making of the laws we are expected to obey."
"I think it is a just demand," said the Colonel.
Solomon Binkus had listened with keen interest.
"I sucked in the love o' liberty with my mother's milk," he said. "Ye
mustn't try to make me do nothin' that goes ag'in' my common sense; if
ye do, ye're goin' to have a gosh hell o' a time with the ol' man
which, you hear to me, will last as long as I do. These days there
ortn't to be no sech thing 'mong white men as bein' born into captivity
an' forced to obey a master, no argeyment bein' allowed. If your wife
an' gal had been took erway by the Injuns, that's what would 'a'
happened to 'em, which I'm sart'in they wouldn't 'a' liked it, ner you
nuther, which I mean to say it respectful, sir."
The Colonel wore a look of conviction.
"I see how you feel about it," he said.
"It's the way all America feels about it," said Irons. "There are not
five thousand men in the colonies who would differ with that view."
Having arrived in the river city, John Irons went, with his family, to
The King's Arms. That very day the Hares took ship for New York on
their way to England. Jack and Solomon went to the landing with them.
"Where is my boy?" Mrs. Irons asked when Binkus returned alone.
"Gone down the river," said the latter.
"Gone down the river!" Mrs. Irons exclaimed. "Why! Isn't that he
coming yonder?"
"It's only part o' him," said Solomon. "His heart has gone down the
river. But it'll be comin' back. It 'minds me o' the fust time I
throwed a harpoon into a sperm whale. He went off like a bullet an'
sounded an' took my harpoon an' a lot o' good rope with him an' got
away with it. Fer days I couldn't think o' nothin' but that 'ere
whale. Then he b'gun to grow smaller an' less important. Jack has
lost his fust whale."
"He looks heart-broken--poor boy!"
"But ye orto have seen her. She's got the ol' harpoon in her side an'
she were spoutin' tears an' shakin' her flukes as she moved away."