SOWING THE DRAGON'S TEETH
Solomon Binkus in his talk with Colonel Hare had signalized the arrival
of a new type of man born of new conditions. When Lord Howe and
General Abercrombie got to Albany with regiments of fine, high-bred,
young fellows from London, Manchester and Liverpool, out for a holiday
and magnificent in their uniforms of scarlet and gold, each with his
beautiful and abundant hair done up in a queue, Mr. Binkus laughed and
said they looked "terrible pert." He told the virile and profane
Captain Lee of Howe's staff, that the first thing to do was to "make a
haystack o' their hair an' give 'em men's clothes."
"A cart-load o' hair was mowed off," to quote again from Solomon, and
all their splendor shorn away for a reason apparent to them before they
had gone far on their ill-fated expedition. Hair-dressing and fine
millinery and drawing-room clothes were not for the bush.
An inherited sense of old wrongs was the mental background of this new
type of man. Life in the bush had strengthened his arm, his will and
his courage. His words fell as forcefully as his ax under provocation.
He was deliberate as became one whose scalp was often in danger;
trained to think of the common welfare of his neighborhood and rather
careless about the look of his coat and trousers.
John Irons and Solomon Binkus were differing examples of the new man.
Of large stature, Irons had a reputation of being the strongest man in
the New Hampshire grants. No name was better known or respected in all
the western valleys. His father, a man of some means, had left him a
reasonable competence.
Certain old records of Cumberland County speak of his unusual gifts,
the best of which was, perhaps, modesty. He had once entertained Sir
William Johnson at his house and had moved west, when the French and
Indian War began, on the invitation of the governor, bringing his
horses with him. For years he had been breeding and training saddle
horses for the markets in New England. On moving he had turned his
stock into Sir William's pasture and built a log house at the fort and
served as an aid and counselor of the great man. Meanwhile his wife
and children had lived in Albany. When the back country was thought
safe to live in, at the urgent solicitation of Sir Jeffrey Amherst, he
had gone to the northern valley with his herd, and prospered there.
Albany had one wide street which ran along the river-front. It ended
at the gate of a big, common pasture some four hundred yards south of
the landing which was near the center of the little city. In the north
it ran into "the great road" beyond the ample grounds of Colonel
Schuyler. The fort and hospital stood on the top of the big hill.
Close to the shore was a fringe of elms, some of them tall and stately,
their columns feathered with wild grape-vines. A wide space between
the trees and the street had been turned into well-kept gardens, and
their verdure was a pleasant thing to see. The town lay along the foot
of a steep hill, and, midway, a huddle of buildings climbed a few rods
up the slope. At the top was the English Church and below it were the
Town Hall, the market and the Dutch Meeting-House. Other thoroughfares
west of the main one were being laid out and settled.
John Irons was well known to Colonel Schuyler. The good man gave the
newcomers a hearty welcome and was able to sell them a house ready
furnished--the same having been lately vacated by an officer summoned
to England. So it happened that John Irons and his family were quickly
and comfortably settled in their new home and the children at work in
school. He soon bought some land, partly cleared, a mile or so down
the river and began to improve it.
"You've had lonesome days enough, mother," he said to his wife. "We'll
live here in the village. I'll buy some good, young niggers if I can,
and build a house for 'em, and go back and forth in the saddle."
The best families had negro slaves which were, in the main, like
Abraham's servants, each having been born in the house of his master.
They were regarded with affection.
It was a peaceful, happy, mutually helpful, God-fearing community in
which the affairs of each were the concern of all. Every summer day,
emigrants were passing and stopping, on their way west, towing bateaux
for use in the upper waters of the Mohawk. These were mostly Irish and
German people seeking cheap land, and seeing not the danger in wars to
come.
There is an old letter from John Irons to his sister in Braintree which
says that Jack, of whom he had a great pride, was getting on famously
in school. "But he shows no favor to any of the girls, having lost his
heart to a young English maid whom he helped to rescue from the
Indians. We think it lucky that she should be far away so that he may
better keep his resolution to be educated and his composure in the
task."
The arrival of the mail was an event in Albany those days. Letters had
come to be regarded there as common property. They were passed from
hand to hand and read in neighborhood assemblies. Often they told of
great hardship and stirring adventures in the wilderness and of events
beyond the sea.
Every week the mail brought papers from the three big cities, which
were read eagerly and loaned or exchanged until their contents had
traveled through every street. Benjamin Franklin's _Pennsylvania
Gazette_ came to John Irons, and having been read aloud by the fireside
was given to Simon Grover in exchange for Rivington's _New York Weekly_.
Jack was in a coasting party on Gallows Hill when his father brought
him a fat letter from England. He went home at once to read it. The
letter was from Margaret Hare--a love-letter which proposed a rather
difficult problem. It is now a bit of paper so brittle with age it has
to be delicately handled. Its neatly drawn chirography is faded to a
light yellow, but how alive it is with youthful ardor:
"I think of you and pray for you very often," it says. "I hope you
have not forgotten me or must I look for another to help me enjoy that
happy fortune of which you have heard? Please tell me truly. My
father has met Doctor Franklin who told of the night he spent at your
home and that he thought you were a noble and promising lad. What a
pleasure it was to hear him say that! We are much alarmed by events in
America. My mother and I stand up for Americans, but my father has
changed his views since we came down the Mohawk together. You must
remember that he is a friend of the King. I hope that you and your
father will be patient and take no part in the riots and house
burnings. You have English blood in your veins and old England ought
to be dear to you. She really loves America very much, indeed, if not
as much as I love you. Can you not endure the wrongs for her sake and
mine in the hope that they will soon be righted? Whatever happens I
shall not cease to love you, but the fear comes to me that, if you turn
against England, I shall love in vain. There are days when the future
looks dark and I hope that your answer will break the clouds that hang
over it."
So ran a part of the letter, colored somewhat by the diplomacy of a
shrewd mother, one would say who read it carefully. The neighbors had
heard of its arrival and many of them dropped in that evening, but they
went home none the wiser. After the company had gone, Jack showed the
letter to his father and mother.
"My boy, it is a time to stand firm," said his father.
"I think so, too," the boy answered.
"Are you still in love with her?" his mother asked.
The boy blushed as he looked down into the fire and did not answer.
"She is a pretty miss," the woman went on. "But if you have to choose
between her and liberty, what will you say?"
"I can answer for Jack," said John Irons. "He will say that we in
America will give up father and mother and home and life and everything
we hold dear for the love of liberty."
"Of course I could not be a Tory," Jack declared. The boy had
studiously read the books which Doctor Franklin had sent to
him--_Pilgrim's Progress_, _Plutarch's Lives_, and a number of the
works of Daniel Defoe. He had discussed them with his father and at
the latter's suggestion had set down his impressions. His father had
assured him that it was well done, but had said to Mrs. Irons that it
showed "a remarkable rightness of mind and temper and unexpected
aptitude in the art of expression."
It is likely that the boy wrote many letters which Miss Margaret never
saw before his arguments were set down in the firm, gentle and winning
tone which satisfied his spirit. Having finished his letter, at last,
he read it aloud to his father and mother one evening as they sat
together, by the fireside, after the rest of the family had gone to
bed. Tears of pride came to the eyes of the man and woman when the
long letter was finished.
"I love old England," it said, "because it is your home and because it
was the home of my fathers. But I am sure it is not old England which
made the laws we hate and sent soldiers to Boston. Is it not another
England which the King and his ministers invented? I ask you to be
true to old England which, my father has told me, stood for justice and
human rights.
"But after all, what has politics to do with you and me as a pair of
human beings? Our love is a thing above that. The acts of the King or
my fellow countrymen can not affect my love for you, and to know that
you are of the same mind holds me above despair. I would think it a
great hardship if either King or colony had the power to put a tax on
you--a tax which demanded my principles. Can not your father differ
with me in politics--although when you were here I made sure that he
agreed with us--and keep his faith in me as a gentleman? I can not
believe that he would like me if I had a character so small and so
easily shifted about that I would change it to please him. I am sure,
too, that if there is anything in me you love, it is my character.
Therefore, if I were to change it I should lose your love and his
respect also. Is that not true?"
This was part of the letter which Jack had written.
"My boy, it is a good letter and they will have to like you the better
for it," said John Irons.
Old Solomon Binkus was often at the Irons home those days. He had gone
back in the bush, since the war ended, and, that winter, his traps were
on many streams and ponds between Albany and Lake Champlain. He came
down over the hills for a night with his friends when he reached the
southern end of his beat. It was probably because the boy had loved
the tales of the trapper and the trapper had found in the boy something
which his life had missed, that an affection began to grow up between
them. Solomon was a childless widower.
"My wife! I tell ye, sir, she had the eyes an' feet o' the young doe
an' her cheeks were like the wild, red rose," the scout was wont to say
on occasion. "I orto have knowed better. Yes, sir, I orto. We lived
way back in the bush an' the child come 'fore we 'spected it one night.
I done what I could but suthin' went wrong. They tuk the high trail,
both on 'em. I rigged up a sled an' drawed their poor remains into a
settlement. That were a hard walk--you hear to me. No, sir, I
couldn't never marry no other womern--not if she was a queen covered
with dimon's--never. I 'member her so. Some folks it's easy to fergit
an' some it ain't. That's the way o' it."
Mr. and Mrs. Irons respected the scout, pitying his lonely plight and
loving his cheerful company. He never spoke of his troubles unless
some thoughtless person had put him to it.
2
That winter the Irons family and Solomon Binkus went often to the
meetings of the Sons of Liberty. One purpose of this organization was
to induce people to manufacture their own necessities and thus avoid
buying the products of Great Britain. Factories were busy making looms
and spinning-wheels; skilled men and women taught the arts of spinning,
weaving and tailoring. The slogan "Home Made or Nothing," traveled far
and wide.
Late in February, Jack Irons and Solomon Binkus went east as delegates
to a large meeting of the Sons of Liberty in Springfield. They
traveled on snowshoes and by stage, finding the bitterness of the
people growing more intense as they proceeded. They found many women
using thorns instead of pins and knitting one pair of stockings with
the ravelings of another. They were also flossing out their silk gowns
and spinning the floss into gloves with cotton. All this was to avoid
buying goods sent over from Great Britain.
Jack tells in a letter to his mother of overtaking a young man with a
pack on his back and an ax in his hand on his way to Harvard College.
He was planning to work in a mill to pay his board and tuition.
"We hear in every house we enter the stories and maxims of Poor
Richard," the boy wrote in his letter. "A number of them were quoted
in the meeting. Doctor Franklin is everywhere these days."
The meeting over, Jack and Solomon went on by stage to Boston for a
look at the big city.
They arrived there on the fifth of March a little after dark. The moon
was shining. A snow flurry had whitened the streets. The air was
still and cold. They had their suppers at The Ship and Anchor. While
they were eating they heard that a company of British soldiers who were
encamped near the Presbyterian Meeting-House had beaten their drums on
Sunday so that no worshiper could hear the preaching.
"And the worst of it is we are compelled to furnish them food and
quarters while they insult and annoy us," said a minister who sat at
the table.
After supper Jack and Solomon went out for a walk. They heard violent
talk among people gathered at the street corners. They soon overtook a
noisy crowd of boys and young men carrying clubs. In front of Murray's
Barracks where the Twenty-Ninth Regiment was quartered, there was a
chattering crowd of men and boys. Some of them were hooting and
cursing at two sentinels. The streets were lighted by oil lamps and by
candles in the windows of the houses.
In Cornhill they came upon a larger and more violent assemblage of the
same kind. They made their way through it and saw beyond, a captain, a
corporal and six private soldiers standing, face to face, with the
crowd. Men were jeering at them; boys hurling abusive epithets. The
boys, as they are apt to do, reflected, with some exaggeration, the
passions of their elders. It was a crowd of rough fellows--mostly
wharfmen and sailors. Solomon sensed the danger in the situation. He
and Jack moved out of the jeering mob. Then suddenly a thing happened
which may have saved one or both of their lives. The Captain drew his
sword and flashed a dark light upon Solomon and called, out:
"Hello, Binkus! What the hell do you want?"
"Who be ye?" Solomon asked.
"Preston."
"Preston! Cat's blood an' gunpowder! What's the matter?"
Preston, an old comrade of Solomon, said to him:
"Go around to headquarters and tell them we are cut off by a mob and in
a bad mess. I'm a little scared. I don't want to get hurt or do any
hurting."
Jack and Solomon passed through the guard and hurried on. Then there
were hisses and cries of "Tories! Rotten Tories!" As the two went on
they heard missiles falling behind them and among the soldiers.
"They's goin' to be bad trouble thar," said Solomon.
"Them lads ain't to blame. They're only doin' as they're commanded.
It's the dam' King that orto be hetchelled."
They were hurrying on, as he spoke, and the words were scarcely out of
his mouth when they heard the command to fire and a rifle volley--then
loud cries of pain and shrill curses and running feet. They turned and
started back. People were rushing out of their houses, some with guns
in their hands. In a moment the street was full.
"The soldiers are slaying people," a man shouted. "Men of Boston, we
must arm ourselves and fight."
[Illustration: "The soldiers are slaying people," a man shouted.]
It was a scene of wild confusion. They could get no farther on
Cornhill. The crowd began to pour into side-streets. Rumors were
flying about that many had been killed and wounded. An hour or so
later Jack and Solomon were seized by a group of ruffians.
"Here are the damn Tories!" one of them shouted.
"Friends o' murderers!" was the cry of another.
"Le's hang 'em!"
Solomon immediately knocked the man down who had called them Tories and
seized another and tossed him so far in the crowd as to give it pause.
"I don't mind bein' hung," he shouted, "not if it's done proper, but no
man kin call me a Tory lessen my hands are tied, without gittin' hurt.
An' if my hands was tied I'd do some hollerin', now you hear to me."
A man back in the crowd let out a laugh as loud as the braying of an
ass. Others followed his example. The danger was passed. Solomon
shouted:
"I used to know Preston when I were a scout in Amherst's army fightin'
Injuns an' Frenchmen, which they's more'n twenty notches on the stock
o' my rifle an' fourteen on my pelt, an' my name is Solomon Binkus from
Albany, New York, an' if you'll excuse us, we'll put fer hum as soon as
we kin git erway convenient."
They started for The Ship and Anchor with a number of men and boys
following and trying to talk with them.
"I'll tell ye, Jack, they's trouble ahead," said Solomon as they made
their way through the crowded streets.
Many were saying that there could be no more peace with England.
In the morning they learned that three men had been killed and five
others wounded by the soldiers. Squads of men and boys with loaded
muskets were marching into town from the country.
Jack and Solomon attended the town meeting that day in the old South
Meeting-House. It was a quiet and orderly crowd that listened to the
speeches of Josiah Quincy, John Hancock and Samuel Adams, demanding
calmly but firmly that the soldiers be forthwith removed from the city.
The famous John Hancock cut a great figure in Boston those days. It is
not surprising that Jack was impressed by his grandeur for he had
entered the meeting-house in a scarlet velvet cap and a blue damask
gown lined with velvet and strode to the platform with a dignity even
above his garments. As he faced about the boy did not fail to notice
and admire the white satin waistcoat and white silk stockings and red
morocco slippers. Mr. Quincy made a statement which stuck like a bur
in Jack Irons' memory of that day and perhaps all the faster because he
did not quite understand it. The speaker said: "The dragon's teeth
have been sown."
The chairman asked if there was any citizen present who had been on the
scene at or about the time of the shooting. Solomon Binkus arose and
held up his hand and was asked to go to the minister's room and confer
with the committee.
Mr. John Adams called at the inn that evening and announced that he was
to defend Captain Preston and would require the help of Jack and
Solomon as witnesses. For that reason they were detained some days in
Boston and released finally on the promise to return when their
services were required.
They left Boston by stage and one evening in early April, traveling
afoot, they saw the familiar boneheads around the pasture lands above
Albany where the farmers had crowned their fence stakes with the
skeleton heads of deer, moose, sheep and cattle in which birds had the
habit of building their nests. It had been thawing for days, but the
night had fallen clear and cold. They had stopped at the house of a
settler some miles northeast of Albany to get a sled load of Solomon's
pelts which had been stretched and hung there. Weary of the brittle
snow, they took to the river a mile or so above the little city,
Solomon hauling his sled. Jack had put on the new skates which he had
bought in Bennington where they had gone for a visit with old friends.
They were out on the clear ice, far from either shore, when they heard
an alarming peal of "river thunder"--a name which Binkus applied to a
curious phenomenon often accompanied by great danger to those on the
rotted roof of the Hudson. The hidden water had been swelling.
Suddenly it had made a rip in the great ice vault a mile long with a
noise like the explosion of a barrel of powder. The rip ran north and
south about mid-stream. They were on the west sheet and felt it waver
and subside till it had found a bearing on the river surface.
"We must git off o' here quick," said Binkus. "She's goin' to break
up."
"Let me have the sled and as soon as I get going, you hop on," said
Jack.
The boy began skating straight toward the shore, drawing the sled and
its load, Solomon kicking out behind with his spiked boots until they
were well under way. They heard the east sheet breaking up before they
had made half the distance to safe footing. Then their own began to
crack into sections as big "as a ten-acre lot," Mr. Binkus said, "an'
the noise was like a battle, but Jack kept a-goin' an' me settin' light
an' my mind a-pushin' like a scairt deer." Water was flooding over the
ice which had broken near shore, but the skater jumped the crack before
it was wider than a man's hand and took the sled with him. They
reached the river's edge before the ice began heaving and there the
sloped snow had been wet and frozen to rocks and bushes, so they were
able to make their way through it.
"Now, we're even," said Solomon when they had hauled the sled up the
river bank while he looked back at the ice now breaking and beginning
to pile up, "I done you a favor an' you've done me one. It's my turn
next."
This was the third in the remarkable series of adventures which came to
these men.
They had a hearty welcome at the little house near The King's Arms,
where they sat until midnight telling of their adventures. In the
midst of it, Jack said to his father:
"I heard a speaker say in Boston that the dragon's teeth had been sown.
What does that mean?"
"It means that war is coming," said John Irons. "We might as well get
ready for it."
These words, coming from his father, gave him a shock of surprise. He
began to think of the effect of war on his own fortunes.
3
Solomon sent his furs to market and went to work on the farm of John
Irons and lived with the family. The boy returned to school. After
the hay had been cut and stacked in mid-summer, they were summoned to
Boston to testify in the trial of Preston. They left in September
taking with them a drove of horses.
"It will be good for Jack," John Irons had said to his wife. "He'll be
the better prepared for his work in Philadelphia next fall."
Two important letters had arrived that summer. One from Benjamin
Franklin to John Irons, offering Jack a chance to learn the printer's
trade in his Philadelphia shop and board and lodging in his home. "If
the boy is disposed to make a wise improvement of his time," the great
man had written, "I shall see that he has an opportunity to take a
course at our Academy. I am sure he would be a help and comfort to
Mrs. Franklin. She, I think, will love to mother him. Do not be
afraid to send him away from home. It will help him along toward
manhood. I was much impressed by his letter to Miss Margaret Hare,
which her mother had the goodness to show me. He has a fine spirit and
a rare gift for expressing it. She and the girl were convinced by its
argument, but the Colonel himself is an obdurate Tory--he being a
favorite of the King. The girl, now very charming and much admired,
is, I happen to know, deeply in love with your son. I have promised
her that, if she will wait for him, I will bring him over in good time
and act as your vicar at the wedding. This, she and her mother are the
more ready to do because of their superstition that God has clearly
indicated him as the man who would bring her happiness and good
fortune. I find that many European women are apt to entertain and
enjoy superstition and to believe in omens--not the only drop of old
pagan blood that lingers in their veins. I am sending, by this boat,
some more books for Jack to read."
The other letter was from Margaret Hare to the boy, in which she had
said that they were glad to learn that he and Mr. Binkus were friends
of Captain Preston and inclined to help him in his trouble. "Since I
read your letter I am more in love with you than ever," she had
written. "My father was pleased with it. He thinks that all cause of
complaint will be removed. Until it is, I do not ask you to be a Tory,
but only to be patient."
Jack and Solomon were the whole day getting their horses across Van
Deusen's ferry and headed eastward in the rough road. Mr. Binkus wore
his hanger--an old Damascus blade inherited from his father--and
carried his long musket and an abundant store of ammunition; Jack wore
his two pistols, in the use of which he had become most expert.
When the horses had "got the kinks worked out," as Solomon put it, and
were a trifle tired, they browsed along quietly with the man and boy
riding before and behind them. By and by they struck into the
twenty-mile bush beyond the valley farms. In the second day of their
travel they passed an Albany trader going east with small kegs of rum
on a pack of horses and toward evening came to an Indian village. They
were both at the head of the herd.
"Stop," said Solomon as they saw the smoke of the fires ahead. "We got
to behave proper."
He put his hands to his mouth and shouted a loud halloo, which was
quickly answered. Then two old men came out to him and the talk which
followed in the Mohawk dialect was thus reported by the scout to his
companion:
"We wish to see the chief," said Solomon. "We have gifts for him."
"Come with us," said one of the old men as they led Solomon to the
Stranger's House. The old men went from hut to hut announcing the
newcomers. Victuals and pipes and tobacco were sent to the Stranger's
House for them. This structure looked like a small barn and was made
of rived spruce. Inside, the chief sat on a pile of unthrashed wheat.
He had a head and face which reminded Jack of the old Roman emperors
shown in the Historical Collections. There was remarkable dignity in
his deep-lined face. His name was Thunder Tongue. The house had no
windows. Many skins hung from its one cross-beam above their heads.
Mr. Binkus presented beaver skins and a handsome belt. Then the chief
sent out some women to watch the horses and to bring Jack into the
village. Near by were small fields of wheat and maize. The two
travelers sat down with the chief, who talked freely to Solomon Binkus.
"If white man comes to our village cold, we warm him; wet, we dry him;
hungry, we feed him," he said. "When Injun man goes to Albany and asks
for food, they say, 'Where's your money? Get out, you Injun dog!' The
white man he comes with scaura and trades it for skins. It steals away
the wisdom of the young braves. It bends my neck with trouble. It is
bad."
They noted this just feeling of resentment in the old chief and
expressed their sympathy. Soon the Albany trader came with his pack of
rum. The chief greeted him cheerfully and asked for scaura.
"I have enough to make a hundred men happy," the trader answered.
"Bring it to me, for I have a sad heart," said Thunder Tongue.
When the Dutch trader went to his horse for the kegs, Solomon said to
the chief:
"Why do you let him bring trouble to your village and steal away the
wisdom of your warriors?"
"Tell me why the creek flows to the great river and I will answer you,"
said the chief.
He began drinking as soon as the trader came with the kegs, while the
young warriors gathered about the door, each with skins on his arm.
Soon every male Indian was staggering and whooping and the squaws with
the children had started into the thickets.
Solomon nudged Jack and left the hut, followed by the boy.
"Come on. Let's git out o' here. The squaws an' the young 'uns are
sneakin'. You hear to me--thar'll be hell to pay here soon."
So while the braves were gathered about the trader and were draining
cups of fire-water, the travelers made haste to mount and get around
the village and back into their trail with the herd. They traveled
some miles in the long twilight and stopped at the Stony Brook Ford,
where there were good water and sufficient grazing.
"Here's whar the ol' Green Mountain Trail comes down from the north an'
crosses the one we're on," said Solomon.
They dismounted and Solomon hobbled a number of horses while Jack was
building a fire. The scout, returning from the wild meadow, began to
examine some tracks he had found at the trail crossing. Suddenly he
gave a whistle of surprise and knelt on the ground.
"Look 'ere, Jack," he called.
The boy ran to his side.
"Now this 'ere is suthin' cur'user than the right hoof o' the devil,"
said Solomon Binkus, as he pointed with his forefinger at a print in
the soft dirt.
Jack saw the print of the wooden stump with the iron ring around its
base which the boy had not forgotten. Near it were a number of
moccasin tracks.
"What does this mean?" he asked.
"Wall, sir, I cocalate it means that ol' Mike Harpe has been chased out
o' the Ohio country an' has come down the big river an' into Lake
Champlain with some o' his band an' gone to cuttin' up an' been
obleeged to take to the bush. They've robbed somebody an' are puttin'
fer salt water. They'll hire a boat an' go south an' then p'int fer
the 'Ganies. Ol' Red Snout shoved his leg in that 'ere gravel sometime
this forenoon prob'ly."
They brewed tea to wet their buttered biscuit and jerked venison.
Solomon looked as if he were sighting on a gun barrel when he said:
"Now ye see what's the matter with this 'ere Injun business. They're
jest a lot o' childern scattered all over the bush an' they don't have
to look fer deviltry. Deviltry is lookin' fer them an' when they git
together thar's trouble."
Solomon stopped, now and then, to peer off into the bush as he talked
while the dusk was falling. Suddenly he put his finger to his lips.
His keen eyes had detected a movement in the shadowy trail.
"Hide an' horns o' the devil!" he exclaimed in a low tone. "This 'ere
may be suthin' neevarious. Shove ol' Marier this way an' grab yer
pistols an' set still."
He crept on his hands and knees with the strap of his rifle in his
teeth to the edge of the bush, where he sat for a moment looking and
listening. Suddenly Solomon arose and went back in the trail,
indicating with a movement of his hand that the boy was not to follow.
About fifteen rods from their camp-fire he found an Indian maiden
sitting on the ground with bowed head. A low moan came from her lips.
Her skin was of a light copper color. There was a wreath of wild
flowers in her hair.
"My purty maid, are your people near?" Solomon asked in the Mohawk
tongue.
She looked up at him, her beautiful dark eyes full of tears, and
sorrowfully shook her head.
"My father was a great white chief," she said. "Always a little bird
tells me to love the white man. The beautiful young pale face on a red
horse took my heart with him. I go, too."
"You must go back to your people," said Solomon.
Again she shook her head, and, pointing up the trail, whispered:
"They will burn the Little White Birch. No more will I go in the trail
of the red man. It is like climbing a thorn tree."
He touched her brow tenderly and she seized his hand and held it
against her cheek.
"I follow the beautiful pale face," she whispered.
Solomon observed that her lips were shapely and her teeth white.
"What is your name?" he asked.
"They call me the Little White Birch."
Solomon told her to sit still and that he would bring food to her.
"It's jest only a little squaw," he said to Jack when he returned to
the camp-fire. "Follered us from that 'ere Injun village. I guess she
were skeered o' them drunken braves. I'm goin' to take some meat an'
bread an' tea to her. No, you better stay here. She's as skeery as a
wild deer."
After Solomon had given her food he made her take his coat for a
blanket and left her alone.
Next morning she was still there. Solomon gave her food again and when
they resumed their journey they saw her following.
"She'll go to the end o' the road, I guess," said Solomon. "I'll tell
ye what we'll do. We'll leave her at Mr. Wheelock's School."
Their trail bore no further signs of Harpe and his followers.
"I'll bet ye a pint o' powder an' a fish hook they was p'intin' south,"
said Solomon.
They reached the Indian school about noon. A kindly old Mohawk squaw
who worked there was sent back in the trail to find the maiden. In a
few minutes the squaw came in with her. Solomon left money with the
good master and promised to send more.
When the travelers went on that afternoon the Little White Birch stood
by the door looking down the road at them.
"She has a coat o' red on her skin, but the heart o' the white man,"
said Solomon.
In a moment Jack heard him muttering, "It's a damn wicked thing to
do--which there ain't no mistake."
They had come to wagon roads improving as they approached towns and
villages, in the first of which they began selling the drove. When
they reached Boston, nearly a week later, they had only the two horses
which they rode.
The trial had just begun. Being ardent Whigs, their testimony made an
impression. Jack's letter to his father says that Mr. Adams
complimented them when they left the stand.
There is an old letter of Solomon Binkus which briefly describes the
journey. He speaks of the "pompy" men who examined them. "They
grinned at me all the time an' the ol' big wig Jedge in the womern's
dress got mad if I tried to crack a joke," he wrote in his letter. "He
looked like he had paid too much fer his whistle an' thought I had sold
it to him. Thought he were goin' to box my ears. John Addums is
erbout as sharp as a razor. Took a likin' to Jack an' me. I tol' him
he were smart 'nough to be a trapper."
The two came back in the saddle and reached Albany late in October.