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Title: The Peddler Spy; or, Dutchmen and Yankees. A Tale of the Capture of Good Hope

Author: W. J. Hamilton

Release date: October 18, 2017 [eBook #55772]

Language: English

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                                BEADLE’S
                               DIME NOVELS

                       Semi-Monthly. Novel Series.

                                No. 107.

                            THE PEDDLER SPY.

               BEADLE & CO., 118 WILLIAM STREET, NEW YORK.
                A. Winch, 505 Chestnut St., Philadelphia.




                     A CHARMING ROMANCE OF THE SEA!

                     Beadle’s Dime Novels, No. 108,
                      TO ISSUE TUESDAY, OCTOBER 16,
                                   IS
                             THE LOST SHIP;
                                   OR
                        A Cruise After a Shadow.

                           BY ROGER STARBUCK,
         AUTHOR OF “OVERBOARD,” “CAST AWAY,” “MAD SKIPPER,” ETC.

    Few writers of sea stories throw around the personages of his
    narratives so much that is novel in character as this pleasing
    author. His plot and incidents, too, are widely out of the
    “beaten path”—he always gives us something _new_. In this
    admirable production we have such a commingling of the elements
    of parental affection and devotion, of singular and deeply
    stirring adventure, of the tenderness of the loves of two good
    lives as renders the work one of its author’s most readable sea
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    Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1866, by BEADLE
    AND COMPANY, in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the
    United States for the Southern District of New York.




[Illustration]




                            THE PEDDLER SPY;
                                   OR,
                          DUTCHMEN AND YANKEES.

                   A TALE OF THE CAPTURE OF GOOD HOPE.

                           BY W. J. HAMILTON,
           AUTHOR OF “BIG FOOT, THE GUIDE,” “EAGLE EYE,” ETC.

                                NEW YORK:
                     BEADLE AND COMPANY, PUBLISHERS,
                           118 WILLIAM STREET.

       Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1866, by
                           BEADLE AND COMPANY,
    In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States
                 for the Southern District of New York.

                               (No. 107.)




THE PEDDLER SPY.




CHAPTER I.

BOSTON “DICKERS” WITH THE DUTCHMEN.


Down the Connecticut, not many miles from the city of Hartford, in the
early days of the State of Wooden Nutmegs, stood an ancient fort, known
by the name of “The House of Good Hope.” By reference to that veracious
chronicle known as “Knickerbocker’s History of New York,” you will find
that it was built by the good people of New Netherlands, to prevent
further encroachment on the part of a race which has since taken the
generic name of Yankee. Although the history mentioned may be correct,
it might be open to censure on the ground that the writer was biased in
favor of his own people. Be that as it may, the people of Good Hope had
planted themselves upon the river, determined to keep back, as far as
possible, the domineering race which had intruded upon the happy valley.

Although honest Diedrich may have been somewhat angry at our ancestors,
the Puritans, still we are forced to say that they were not very far
wrong in their estimate of character. The stolid Dutchmen were poorly
suited to contend with them in an encounter in which wit was the weapon
used. Placed face to face, each with a stout oak cudgel in his hand,
perhaps no Dutchman would have feared to meet one of the hated race.
But when it came to the commodity in which they did not deal, namely,
cunning, the Puritans had the advantage.

The New Netherlanders claimed all the land extending from the banks of
the Hudson to the Connecticut; and certainly, if any white man could
claim the soil at all, their claim was prior to that of the English. But,
with the wholesome proviso that “might makes right,” the Puritans pushed
their settlements to the side of the Happy River, under the very nose of
the Dutch commandant at Good Hope.

What that worthy thought, when the first members of the hardy band, who
pushed their way through the trackless wilderness to this spot, made
their appearance, is not fully set down. We only know, by the history
before mentioned, that they became obnoxious to the Dutch from their
desire to teach the damsels the absurd custom of “bundling,” in which
no true Dutchman would indulge. Besides, they had begun, even at this
early period, to show that sharpness in making bargains which since has
distinguished them above other nations in the world. Certain of them made
a practice of “swapping horses” with the men of Good Hope; and, although
the beasts they brought for “dicker” were, to all appearance, good ones,
yet no sooner was the bargain completed than the horses begun to show
traits which had not been “set down in the bill.” Indeed, it begun to be
proverbial that horse-trading with the Windsor people meant a transaction
in which a Dutchman gave a very good beast and some _gelt_ for a very
poor one and no _gelt_ at all. Moreover, the English were addicted to
the practice of overreaching the spouses of absent Hans and Yawcop with
transactions for small articles, such as constitute a peddler’s pack in
our day. Some will go so far as to say that, under the mask of perfect
disinterestedness of purpose, these Yankees would almost break up
housekeeping on the part of a couple possessed of considerable means, in
a single visit—so much were they ahead of the tramps of the present day.
Indeed, it is averred that the main cause of hostility on the part of
the Dutchmen against the English was the fact of the influence of these
profane wanderers over the partners of their phlegmatic joys and stolid
sorrows.

But, be that as it may, the inhabitants of Hartford were not in very good
order with those of Good Hope. On whose side the blame lay, we will leave
to historians to decide—if they can—while we proceed with our narrative.

Good Hope was an awkward structure of mud and logs, such as the Dutch
built in that day; strong enough, however, for the purpose for which it
was built, if it had been in different hands. It faced upon the river,
was armed with some of the clumsy ordnance common to the period, and
was garrisoned by about forty men from the settlement at New York, who
were somewhat overfed, and inclined to smoke all the time they were not
eating or drinking. Their leader, Van Curter, was one of those fiery,
self-willed men sometimes found in his nation, who mistake pig-headed
obstinacy for firmness of heart. An old soldier, trained under the
unhappy Prince of Orange, he thought no people like his own, and no
soldier like himself. He had seen, with ill-disguised jealousy, that a
people were growing up about him who were ahead of his own in acuteness,
and who were daily outstripping them in matters of business. He had
written a dispatch to Wouter Von Twiller, Governor of New Netherlands,
acquainting him with the inroad of these Windsor people, and of the
absolute incapacity of his men to compete with them. The governor
thereupon issued a proclamation, commanding the English to withdraw from
land which was the property of the Dutch East India Company.

The Yankees’ answer was very much to the same effect as that of the
worthy Master Nicholas, when he defied the trumpeter of William Kieft,
applying his thumb to the tip of his nose, and spreading out the fingers
like a fan. At least, they paid no attention to the proclamation, but
continued to take up land, and increase the limits of their colony.
The only reply they did vouchsafe to the demand of the governor was
that they claimed the land in the right of possession, and would not
give it up. The New Netherlanders had no desire to make a quarrel with
their neighbors, who were, for the most part, strong men, who would not
hesitate to use manual _persuasion_ in case it became necessary. Hence
the Dutchmen resorted to all manner of threats, entreaties—any thing but
violence.

There was one person, in particular, who was a source of constant
annoyance to the people of Good Hope. This was a hawker of small
trinkets, known in the settlements as Boston Bainbridge. A sharp,
business-like fellow, not a bad prototype of the Down-Easter of our day,
he made his way into every house from Boston to the City of Brotherly
Love. His pack was welcomed in the houses of his own countrymen, who,
being as sharp in buying as he was in selling, seldom allowed him to
get the better of them. But the Dutchmen were not so cunning, and were
overreached in many a bargain. Boston did not confine himself entirely to
dealing in small wares, but sold many articles of greater value; bought
and sold horses, or, as he expressed himself, was a “mighty man on a
dicker.”

Boston came into Good Hope on a bright morning in the early part of
the month of June. His pack had been replenished in Hartford, and he
hoped to diminish its contents among the Dutch. He was a middle-sized,
active-looking man, about forty years of age, clad in a suit of gray
homespun. His pack was, as usual strapped upon his back, while he led a
forlorn-looking Narragansett pony, which paced slowly along behind its
master, like a captive led to the stake. Boston had some misgivings that
certain things sold to these people must have come to grief since his
last visit. But this was not by any means the first time he had been
tackled by them for selling bad wares, and he never was at a loss for an
answer.

The families of the Dutch had built up a little village about the fort,
and he entered boldly. The first man he met was an unmistakable Teuton,
with a broad, bulky figure, built after the manner of Wouter Von Twiller,
then Governor of New Netherlands. This individual at once rushed upon the
Yankee, exhibiting the blade of a knife, severed from the handle.

“Ah-ha, Yankee! You see dat, eh? You sell dat knife to me; you sheat me
mit dat knife.”

“You git eout,” replied the Yankee. “I never sold you _that_ knife!”

“Yaw! Dat ish von lie; dat ish von _pig_ lie! You vas sell dat knife mit
me.”

Boston lowered the pack from his shoulder and took the despised blade in
his hand.

“Now then, Dutchy, what’s the matter with this knife, I should like to
know?”

“Donner unt blitzen! Das ish von big sheat knife. Goot for nix. Das knife
not coot preat, py Shoseph!”

“How did you break it?” asked the peddler, fitting the pieces of the
knife together and taking a wire from his pocket. “This is a good knife,
I reckon. You broke the rivet. Now look at me, and see how far we are in
advance of you in the arts and sciences. I tell you, Hans Drinker, you
don’t know any thing about these matters—blamed if you do.”

As he spoke, he took out a pair of pincers, riveted the blade in, pounded
it, and held up the knife for inspection.

“Look at that, neow, Hans Drinker. Any one but a Dutchman would have done
that long ago, instead of waiting for a poor fellow who sold you the
knife at a _sacrifice_.”

“Vat ish dat, eh? I no care for dat? I says de knife vill not cut preat,”
cried Hans.

“See here—where have you had this knife? You put it in hot water, I know.
Tell the truth and shame the adversary—didn’t you, now?”

“Vell, I did; but dat no hurt.”

“All you know. Of _course_ it hurts! What do you expect a knife to be
that you can buy for a shilling, English money? It took the temper out of
it, I allow.”

“Vat ish demper?”

“Never you mind. That knife is spoiled, and I know how. I wouldn’t give
an English penny for it to-day. For why? A Dutchman don’t know how to use
a knife. Consequence—he spoils it.”

Hans paused in some doubt, seeing the blame of the failure of the knife
laid so fully upon his guiltless shoulders. Boston gave him no time to
think, but threw open his pack.

“Now, I’ll tell you what I mean to do. You don’t deserve it; but I will
do a violence to my conscience, and do something for you. Keep your
fingers to yourself and feast your eyes upon that.” Here he produced a
knife somewhat better than the one which Hans had returned. “Now, I’ll
tell you what I will do. ’Tisn’t right, I know it; ’tisn’t behaving
properly to those who bought the last lot I had, but you may have _that_
knife for four shillings sterling. You stare. I don’t wonder, for that
knife ought to bring fully _ten_ shillings. It’s worth it, if it’s worth
a farthing; but what can I do? I must put my goods down to you fellows or
you won’t look at them. I am making myself a poor man for your sakes.”

“Vour shilling. Dat ish too mooch, by Shoseph!”

“Too much! I tell you I am _giving_ the knife away—absolutely _giving_
it away. That knife you bought before was a _cheap_ knife, I allow that;
but it was _sold_ cheap; but I lose on this knife if I sell it at six
shillings, and here I offer it to you at four. Many a time I am tempted
to shut up my pack and tramp through the woods no more; but when I think
that it will be impossible for you to get along without me, I repent,
and sacrifice my own interests for your good. I can’t help it, if I am
soft-hearted, it’s one of my little failings. I sell below cost because I
hate to be hard upon poor men.”

Hans took the knife in his hands and begun to open and shut the bright
blade. He had been beaten again and again by this same peddler, and did
not care to be taken in once more. The polished blade shone like glass in
the sunlight.

“Dat ish goot knife, eh?”

“Good! You’d better believe it’s good. Why, I know a man down to Hartford
has got one of them there knives, and what do you reckon he does with it?
You can’t tell, scarcely. No, ’tain’t probable you can. Then _I’ll_ tell
you. He uses it for an _ax_, and he can cut down a good-sized maple with
it about as soon as you cut a cat-tail down with one of your clumsy axes.
I don’t say that _this_ is as good a knife as _that_. Probably ’tain’t;
but it came out of the same mold.”

“Big price, dat. Sure dis is goot knife, eh? You sell me bad knife two,
t’ree, vour dimes. Dat ish pad—dat is worser as pad. Vour shillings?”

“Four. But see here. I ain’t given you inducement to buy, it seems. Rot
me ef I don’t think you are about the toughest tree I ever tried to
climb. Now look at me, and see a man always ready to sacrifice himself
for the good of the people. Here are a pair of combs. They are worth
money—they are _good_ combs. I throw them into the pile, and what else?
Here is a good pair of shoe-buckles. I throw them in, and beg you to
take the pile away for six shillings. You won’t? I thought so. You ain’t
capable of it, more’s the pity. I’ll again hurt my own feelings by saying
five-and-six. If you don’t take them at that I must shut up my pack.
Hans Drinker, you were born to good luck. I don’t think, upon my word
and honor, that any one ever had such a chance since the days of Noah. I
don’t, sart’inly.”

“You talk so fast dat I has nottings to zay mitout speaking. Vell, I
takes dem. Py Shoseph, if tey ish not goot, I kills you mit a mistake,
shure!”

“I’ve half a mind to take it back. I think—”

“Nix, splitzen, nean; I puys dem goots. Dey ish mine. Vive-unt-sax; dere
it ish.”

“Well, take them,” said Boston, with a sigh of resignation. “I lose by
you, but I gave you my word, and you may have them.”

Having thus effected a sale of the articles, which were dear at eighteen
pence, Boston lifted his pack and proceeded blithely on his way, while
Hans Drinker hurried away to display his treasures, and chuckle over his
bargain. Boston was not fated to proceed far, when he was arrested by a
yell from a house by the roadside.

“Holt on, dere! you sleutzen Yankee, holt on!”

“He-he,” chuckled Boston, “That’s old Swedlepipe. Now _he_ will give me
rats about that horse.”

As he spoke, the person who had stopped him threw open the door of his
cottage, and rushed out into the road. He was a stout-built old man, very
red in the face, and flourishing a staff over his head.

“Dear me,” cried Boston. “Is it possible that I see my dear friend
Mynheer Swedlepipe? Give me your hand, mynheer. This is, indeed, a sight
for sore eyes.”

“It vill be a sight for sore heads, pefore you go, or else my name is not
Paul Swedlepipe. Vat you do, you Yankee rascal? You comes to Good Hope
mid your flimpsy goots, unt sell dem to honest Dootchmen. I vill preak
every pone in your skin.”

“Now, Mynheer Swedlepipe, my dear mynheer, what _have_ I done? Just tell
me what I have done? Shake hands.”

“You dry to shake hands mit me unt I preak your head. Vat you done to
your tear Mynheer Swedlepipe, eh? Vell, den, I dells you. You prings to
dish place von old hoss dat ish not vorth _von_ guilder. Hein, you curry
him unt you comb him, unt you make him look ver’ nice. I dinks it ish von
ver’ goot horse, unt I pays you von hunder guilders! _Sturm unt wetter!_
Ish dat nottings, eh? _Hagel!_ I kills you deat ash von schmoke-herring.”

The stick flourished about in dangerous proximity to Boston’s ears, who
sat upon his pack with an immovable countenance, watching every motion on
the part of the other with his sharp eyes. There was something in his
face which deterred the Dutchman from striking.

“What’s the matter with the horse, mynheer, I should like to know?”

“Matter! Dere ish not von disease vich a horse can have dat he hash not.”

“Let me know one.”

“He hash de _heaves_.”

“Yes.”

“And de _ring-bone_.”

“Yes.”

“And he ish bone-spavined.”

“Yes.”

“And he sprained-shoulder.”

“Yes.”

“Donner! Ton’t sit dere unt say yes, yes, yes! S’all I dell you one more
t’ing? Vell, here it ish. He has nix toot’ in his head!”

“No?” cried Boston, in surprise. “He had when I brought him here. How did
he lose them?”

“Dey shoost dropped out in his manger te first times I feed him. Ton’t
lie to me. You put his teet’ in to sell him. You tied dem in mit strings,
you pig, _pig_ rogue!”

“Gracious, mynheer! Is it possible that you consider me capable of such
business?”

“Yaw!”

“Oh, you do? Now you are wrong. I bought that horse of a friend in
Hartford. He is not the man I took him for, nor the horse is not what you
took him for. Well, who is to blame? I take it, that it is the man who
sold me the horse first. I didn’t think he’d a-done it, mynheer; I didn’t
think he’d a-done it.”

Mynheer looked at him in a species of indignant admiration. He had
thought that the peddler would not certainly have the surpassing
effrontery to deny the fact of his knowledge of the various diseases by
which the poor animal was afflicted.

“You means to dell me, den, dat you don’t know dat dis horse ish _plind_?”

“Is he?”

“Yaw; he ish plind ash a pat. He ish teaf. You not knows dat, either?”

“That explains it! Now, I fired off a gun close to his ear, one day, and
he didn’t even jump. That was because he was deaf. Well _now_!”

“Dere ish one t’ing more. You didn’t know dat de nice tail he carried
pelonged to some nodder horse?”

“You don’t say! Not his own tail? If I ain’t beat! Well, mynheer, the
rascal has beat us both this time. He has got the money, and we can’t
help ourselves. I didn’t tell you that I gave a hundred and ten guilders
for the beast, did I? No? Well, you see by that I lost on the trade with
you. I always lose, most years.”

Swedlepipe shook his head, and dropped his stick dejectedly. He would
have understood the pleasant little fiction on the part of Boston if
he had known that a farmer near Hartford had lost a horse by drowning.
Boston had taken possession of his tail and teeth, and by the aid of the
two had so contrived to patch up an ancient steed which he picked up in
the woods, where it had been turned out to die, as to sell him to poor
Swedlepipe at an exorbitant rate.

Old Swedlepipe scratched his head. He had sworn by the name of his patron
saint, worthy Nicholas, that he would give Boston Bainbridge a taste of
wholesome Dutch cudgel, if he ever dared to set foot in Good Hope again.
And yet here he was, and had purged himself of all stain, by saddling the
guilt upon some unfortunate third person.

“I’ll tell you, squire,” said he, “I’m sorry for this. If I had only
_known_ that the horse was a bad one, I would have brought you another
from Windsor. Oh, you better believe they have horses _there_.”

“Yaw, dey must have dem _dere_, for dey never prings dem _here_.”

“Ha,” said the other. “There are some sharp people down to Windsor.
There’s Holmes, now. You know Holmes? He is the man who wouldn’t stop
when you threatened to blow his sloop out of water. Of course they don’t
send away their best horses often. Sometimes they do. You see this pony?
If I had known that you would want a horse you might have had him. You
know Ten Eyck?”

“Yaw. Pig rascal he is!”

“Yes. Just so. Wal, that hoss is for him.”

“For Ten Eyck?”

“Yes.”

“’Tain’t a very pig hoss.”

“No, ’tain’t. But it’s the best hoss of its kind in the country. He ain’t
very fast, to be sure. But, for all that, if he ran a race against a
red deer, I should know which to put my money on. That’s the same hoss,
mynheer, that went from Providence to Salem in jist tew days. You don’t
believe it? Wal, I don’t ask it of you. Don’t take _my_ word for it. I
don’t say that the hoss has got a good eye. ’Twouldn’t do me any good;
you wouldn’t believe me. Look for yourself.”

“Did Ten Eyck send for dat hoss?”

“Oh, never mind,” replied Boston, in high dudgeon. “’Tain’t no use for
you to ask. You can’t have this hoss.”

“Not if I gif’s you money?”

“Hey?”

“Not if I gif’s you more money as Ten Eyck?”

“You wouldn’t.”

“How much he gif’s?”

“Fifty guilders.”

“Hein!”

“Fifty guilders.”

“Der tuyvel!”

“But what’s the use talking? I must go on and leave the hoss. Want any
thing in my line, mynheer?”

“Holt on. Ten Eyck shan’t hav’ dat hoss. I gif’s you sixty guilders for
him.”

“Do you think I’d break my word for ten guilders?” cried Boston, taking
up his pack.

“Seventy.”

“Say eighty.”

“No; seventy.”

“Seventy-five. Come, git up, Lightfoot!”

“Vell, I gif’s it. I gets de money.”

“All right. I’ll stay here. By the way, where is that other hoss?”

“Turned him out to commons.”

“I’ll give you five guilders for him.”

“Dake him. He not wort two kreutzers.”

“Not to _you_,” replied the Yankee; “but to me he may be of use. Git the
money.”

Swedlepipe plunged into the cabin, and reappeared a moment after, and
counted the money into Boston’s hand.

“Any thing else I can do for you, mynheer?”

“Yaw.”

“What is it?”

“Vell, I dells you. Shoost you sheat Ten Eyck so bad ash you sheat me,
unt I gif’s you _den_ guilders!”

“Is that a bargain, squire?”

“Yaw! He vound out dat you selt me dat hoss, unt he laughs von whole day.
Now, you sheat him. Vill you do it?”

“Yes. I’ll cheat him for the ten guilders, for your sake. You know I
don’t often do it; but, to please a good friend, I will do a violence to
my conscience, particularly in a case like this.”

“Ven will you do it?”

“Oh, I don’t know; pretty soon. When I have done it, you shall hear from
me. I shall want that old hoss, howsumdever.”

“Send for him ven you wants him. How you sheat Ten Eyck, eh?”

“I don’t know now. I’ll tell you when I do it.”

He took up his pack and trudged courageously down the little street
toward the fort. The stolid sentry made some demur against his entrance;
but he got through at last. Swedlepipe gazed after him, with open mouth,
until his form was concealed from view. Then, slowly replacing the pipe
between his teeth, he ejaculated: “Dat ish ter tuyvel’s poy, I dinks.”




CHAPTER II.

BOSTON ON THE WITNESS-STAND.


Boston Bainbridge knew that he entered the fort at considerable peril to
himself; but he had learned, in his wandering life, to look danger in
the face. His trickery in trade was as natural to him as the rising of
smoke. But, underlying his whimsical manner, there was a vein of pure
bravery, and an inherent love for deeds of daring. The jealousies between
the Yankees and Dutch had strengthened by degrees, until the two parties
begun to concert plans to oust each other from the stronghold they had
taken. The Windsor party was headed by Captain William Holmes, a man
of great individual courage, who had refused to retrace his steps when
he first ascended the river, and ran by under fire of the Dutch guns.
Knowing that the Dutch were concerting some plan for his overthrow, he
determined to send Boston Bainbridge to Good Hope with his pack, to see
what he could pick up in the way of information.

The appearance of Boston was no sooner made known to Van Curter, the
commandant, than he sent out his orderly to bring the hawker into his
presence. The former was a tall, hook-nosed man, with the erect bearing
of a soldier. Boston did not like the expression of his eye. It was full
of fire, dark and penetrating.

“Your name is Boston Bainbridge,” said he. “If I remember aright, you
were here some four months ago?”

“You are right, squire. I _was_ here then, and I calculate I did a heap
of dicker.”

“Oh, you did? Allow me to remind you of the fact that you were told not
to come here any more. You did not pay much attention to that.”

“Now, see here, squire, I’ll tell you all about it. I’m a trader, and it
stands to reason that when a feller gets a good place to sell, he don’t
like to leave it. I didn’t think you more than half-meant it. Let me show
you some goods I’ve got—”

“Silence!” thundered Van Curter.

“Eh?”

“Silence, I say. Listen to me. Who sent you here?”

“Who sent me here? Now, squire, I calculate that ain’t a fair question.
Who should send me here? I came here to sell goods. Let me show—”

“Hans!” cried Van Curter.

The orderly entered.

“Draw your sword,” continued Van Curter, “and if this fellow attempts
again to speak of his beggarly pack, run him through the body.”

The eyes of the hawker begun to flash, and he folded his arms upon his
breast.

“Your questions?” he cried. “Let me hear them.”

“First, then, who sent you here?”

“I have told you already.”

“What did you come to do?”

“You will make nothing out of me while a man stands over me with a
drawn sword. I am only a poor man—one of the poorest in his majesty’s
colony—but the threats of no _Dutchman_ under heaven can scare _me_.”

“What would you have me do?”

“Send away this fellow with the sword, and let me talk in my own way. We
shall get along quite as well. And don’t try to bully. I ain’t used to
it. There are those who will see me righted if I am ill-treated—_that_
you must know.”

“Do you threaten?”

“Will you send this fellow away?”

“Retire, Hans, and stand at the door. Enter when I call.”

The orderly obeyed.

“Now speak,” said Van Curter.

“You see, squire, I had been to Boston, and I calculated it was about
time you were out of nicknacks, so I came out.”

“You stick to that story? Have you been to Windsor?”

“Wal, I calculate I have.”

“What is Holmes doing?”

“That’s rather a hard question. The last time I saw him, he was eatin’.
He _has_ got a mouth to put away the provisions in, now I tell you.”

“Pish, man; you know what I want to know. Tell me what they are doing at
Windsor.”

“They are building a mighty big stock-house there, I reckon—nigh as big
as Good Hope. But law, what _can_ they do? You could eat them up!”

“Are they preparing to attack me?”

“No, I calculate not. They have all they kin do to keep the Indians
friendly.”

“Do they talk much about us?”

“Yes, more or less. Not any thing to count, howsumdever.”

“_What_ do they say?”

“I reckon they think you are pretty strong here. They talk about that
some.”

“Do you think, if they were to attempt it, they would drive us out of
Good Hope?”

“Now, I don’t know as to _that_. I am a bit of a Boston man myself, and
don’t care so much for Windsor. I don’t say they wouldn’t if they got the
chance. You see, it’s a pretty bit of land, and you asked them to come
out here.”

“So we did, fools that we were to do it. What would you advise us to do?”

“You want me to tell you?”

“Yes.”

“Honest?”

“Yes.”

“Then _this_ is what I think: Don’t stir us up. We are good folks, if you
let us alone; but if you rile us up, we git hornety. I don’t say this to
scare you, or any thing. But we are tough colts to ride without a halter.”

“Do you think we fear you?”

“I don’t say it. You may or you may not. But, you ask my advice, and I
give it. Don’t cut up rough. Don’t go to smoothing us against the grain.
Go with the nap of the cloth, and you’ll find it’ll work better.”

“Ah! How many men have you at Windsor?”

“Don’t keep mixing me up with the Windsor folks, squire. I don’t belong
there. I am a Boston man, myself.”

“Then you won’t refuse to tell me how many men you have?”

“I would if I could. A good many had gone out to hunt and trade. All
through, there was a pretty lively sprinkling of them, I calculate.”

“Do you think they have as many as we have?”

“How many do you reckon?”

Van Curter instantly gave him this information, and immediately cursed
himself for doing it, fearing that the hawker would take advantage of the
fact against him. He was the more angry from the fact that Boston refused
to be at all explicit in regard to the number at Windsor. “He hadn’t
counted,” he said. “They were scattered round a good deal; might be more
or might be less. Couldn’t bring himself to say, to a certainty, whether
they had as many as Van Curter or not, but most probable a likely number.”

“How did you come here?”

“I reckon that is easy to answer. Part of the way I walked, and part of
the way I rode. Couldn’t I sell you something, squire?”

“Wait until I have finished my questions. Did you see Captain Holmes at
Windsor?”

“Yes, I told you before.”

“Was William Barlow in Windsor?”

“The lieutenant?”

“Yes.”

“Y-a-a-s. He was there.”

“Did he know you were coming here?”

“Guess so.”

“Do you _know_?”

“Y-a-a-s, I think he did. I didn’t make no secret of it. I trade here a
great deal.”

“The last time you were here, you brought a message to my daughter from
him. Don’t deny it, for I know you did. Have you one now?”

“No. The lieutenant found out that you were mad about it, and he thought
he wouldn’t trouble the gal just now.”

“You are sure you have not a letter about you somewhere?”

“You may s’arch me, if you think I have. ’Twon’t be the first time it’s
been done.”

“You are willing?”

“I can’t say I am just _willing_. I allus prefer to have the handling of
my goods _myself_. Before you call in your men, I’ll go over the box and
show you that there ain’t any message in that.”

Van Curter looked on zealously as the hawker tumbled over his goods
upon the floor, and turned over its contents. He then examined the pack
itself, and found nothing. Boston put the things back, saying, that
“Dutchmen had sometimes light fingers as well as heavy bodies.”

Van Curter now called in two men, who searched the hawker with great
care. They found nothing.

“I told you so before you begun,” said he. “You wouldn’t believe _me_.
Perhaps you will next time, and save yourself trouble.”

The fellows went out, and Van Curter begun again, with the air of a man
without hope:

“Did you come here alone?”

“Yes, I did. What will you ask next? I’d like to have you get done as
soon as you can, for I want to be at work. I’m losing money on you.”

A light came into the face of the other. “You like money, then?”

“I ain’t much ahead of any Dutchman of my acquaintance, then. They like
money. Of course I like money. Why not?”

“Then I have not been holding out the right inducement for you to speak.”

“You are right in your head, old lad. I don’t speak without a proper
inducement.”

“Is this right?” asked Van Curter, slipping a couple of gold pieces into
his hand.

“Double it,” said the other, shortly. The commandant obeyed. Boston
clinked the pieces upon the floor, tried them with his teeth, and, being
satisfied that they were good, put them in his pouch and turned to the
commandant.

“That _is_ the right argument. What do you want?”

“Did Barlow send any message to my daughter?”

“Y-a-a-s, he did.”

“Have you got it?”

“Not in writin’.”

“What did he say?”

“Assured her that he was hers till death.”

“Ha!”

“That his love would never grow cold.”

“The insufferable Englishman!”

“That he had not yet given up hope.”

“He had better.”

“Hopes to win your good will.”

“Never!”

“Bids her trust in him, and they will meet again.”

“Is that all?”

“Yes.”

The commandant mused for some moments, with his head bowed upon his
hand. Van Curter was one of those obstinate men, found often among
soldiers, who loved or hated with vindictive energy. His hatred of the
Yankees was intense, and it offended him greatly that his daughter
should fix her affections upon one of the despised race. It would have
pleased him better to have seen her married to some fat burgher of New
Netherlands—one of his own nation.

“Listen, sir,” said he, at last. “I have a few words to say to you. I
love my child as well as any man can do. But I would sooner see her dead
at my feet than married to a Yankee.”

“Now, see here, squire. Don’t talk that way. ’Tain’t proper. We are an
odd kind of people; I calculate we always get even with any one who hurts
us. You don’t know the lieutenant very well, I see. I do. There ain’t a
finer boy from the Floridas to Penobscot. He is brave, of good family,
and I really don’t see what you have against him.”

“Let that pass. I have told you what I think about this matter. He shall
never again see Theresa Van Curter.”

Boston hummed a low tune.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Don’t you believe any such thing, squire. You can’t keep two young
people apart. If I want to hurry on a marriage, I always get some old
maid, old woman, or old man, no matter which, to _oppose_ the match.
_That_ will bring it on, as sure as a gun!”

“You think so?”

“It stands to reason. It’s just the way of human nature. They always want
to eat forbidden fruit. Your best way would be to laugh the girl out of
the idea, if you are so set against it.”

“What a nation you will make some day,” cried the other, in a tone
of admiration. “You can not fail. There is nothing which you can not
compass, for your desires are boundless. I seem to see with a prophet’s
eye. This great continent will one day bear a great nation famous for its
liberal ideas, a nation of cunning men, who will hold the world in their
grasp. My nation will contribute to make up _this_ nation; for where
liberal ideas and freedom to mankind hold sway, the Dutch must have a
hand.”

Worthy Van Curter, sitting in his rude fort upon the banks of the bright
river, and prophesying the future of the land, in his wildest dreams
never approached the reality. Who could hope that, in less than ten
generations, the power of the wonderful race should have built up a
republic, the grandest of nations, the hope of all the world!

“But, this is idle talk,” the soldier continued, rising from his seat.
“When you go back to Windsor, and you must go soon, as I will not have
you hanging about here, you will see this Lieutenant Barlow, and take
this message from me: under no circumstances will I tolerate, in the
least degree, his addresses to my daughter. Let him beware how he crosses
my path, or worse will come of it. Will you remember?”

“Y-a-a-s, squire.”

“You may now go out and sell your goods. I give you two days. After that,
you must leave the settlement.” He rose and left the room, not aware of
the fact that Boston was snapping his fingers behind his official back.




CHAPTER III.

TWO DUTCH BEAUTIES.


“Git eout,” said Boston, executing another flourish as he disappeared.
“Two days, umph. Where will you be in two days, I should like to know?
Now to business.”

He took up the pack and departed from head-quarters, going out upon the
parade. There he was besieged by a score of Dutchmen, several of whom
reproached him with bad faith in previous bargains, but did not fail to
buy; indeed, Boston Bainbridge was gifted by nature with that shrewdness
in a bargain which is characteristic of that famous town from whence he
took his name; so gifted, indeed, that one of his own countrymen, who
had been cheated by him, gave him the name, and it had stuck to him ever
after.

Getting rid of his purchasers, he carried his diminished pack to the door
of a house more pretentious than the others, situated upon the river
bank. His knock brought to the door a Teutonic damsel, who started back
in undisguised dismay at the sight of the hawker.

“Hist, Katrine,” said he; “don’t make a row. How are you?”

“What do you want, Boston?” replied the girl, quickly. “I will not join
any scheme against the peace of my cousin.”

“Sho, now, who asked you? It seems to me, my dear, that you don’t seem
glad to see me, after so long a time.”

“I ain’t. Don’t you know it’s dangerous to come here? You were in trouble
enough before, cheat that you are; but now—”

“Well, what now?”

“I won’t tell. It’s enough for you to know that something besides a
broken head will be yours if you stay. Take up your pack, for heaven’s
sake, and be off about your business.”

Boston passed his arm about the waist of the buxom girl, and led her into
the kitchen. There he dropped his pack, drew her down upon his knee,
and kissed her with hearty good-will. She struggled desperately, uttered
a good many protests, and ended by returning his kisses in right good
earnest.

“Dere now,” said Katrine, in her pretty English, just enough touched with
the Teutonic element to give it a zest, “I hope you be satisfied. Now
tell me why you come here? Be quiet, can’t you?”

The last exclamation was elicited by an attempt on the part of Boston to
kiss her again. This she resisted, as in duty bound, until out of breath,
and then yielded as before.

“You want to know why I am here. I came upon that which you would have
sent me away on a while ago—business, and to see you.”

“Me! Far enough from Good Hope you would be, if only poor Katrine brought
you here. Confess, now, you have other business?”

“Of course; I said so. _Plenty_ of business, and you must help me,
Katrine. But first, tell me what you meant by saying I should have
something besides my head broken?”

“Just your neck, that’s all.”

“That ain’t much, Katrine.”

“No, dat ain’t much, or you wouldn’t risk it so many times every day. I
tell you to go away.”

“You haven’t told me why.”

“I won’t tell, either.”

“Then I won’t go. I am not going to run away from a shadow.”

“Dis no shadow; you will be taken as a spy.”

“Sho; we ain’t at war with the Dutch. No saying how soon we may be,
though; besides, I don’t mind telling you that I have been before the
commandant to-day, and was pretty thoroughly searched, too. What does it
matter? They didn’t find any thing, though. Where is your cousin?”

“I knew you would come to that, Boston; but it is no use. I won’t—I
_won’t_—I WON’T! You needn’t ask me.”

“You won’t—you _won’t_—you WON’T! and I needn’t ask you. That’s pretty
strong. Pray, before you refuse any thing, wait till you are asked. Do
you think I want to hurt your cousin?”

“I don’t know,” sobbed poor Katrine, “I don’t think you would; but I love
my cousin.”

“So do I!”

“What!”

“I love her just as every man who ever saw her loves her, as I love
a beautiful picture or a clear night, or as something holy and pure,
entirely beyond my reach. As a lovely piece of God’s handiwork, I admire
her—but she would not do for every-day use. I have some one in my mind
who would suit me better.”

“Who?” asked Katrine, quickly.

“I don’t like to tell; you might not like it.”

“Never mind,” said she, struggling away from him. “Don’t touch me again;
I don’t want to know her name.”

“Oh, but you must hear it,” replied the other, “I’ll tell it now, just to
spite you. Her name is—”

“I won’t hear,” cried the girl, putting her fingers in her ears—“I won’t
hear. Don’t you try for to tell me.”

“She is a pretty girl, I tell you,” said Boston, with a malicious twinkle
in his eyes, “and you don’t know how I love her—you don’t want to hear
her name?”

“No,” said Katrine, with a quiver of the lip, “I won’t hear it.”

“I’ve a good mind not to tell you, though I know you are dying to hear
it. Yes, I will; her name is—” Katrine took her fingers partly out of her
ears.

“A Dutch one,” went on Bainbridge. The girl again stopped her ears.

“But a pretty name for all that,” said Boston. “You don’t want to hear
it; then I’ll tell it. I call her _Katrine_!”

“What’s her other name?”

“Veeder.”

“_Me!_ Oh, you beast—you been fooling me all dis time. You lie,
_dreadful_; I don’t know what may happen to you; but, after all, I am
glad you said Katrine, and I am glad you said Veeder, for I don’t know
what I should do if you were to fall in love with any one else, you dear,
cheating, bundling old vagabond!”

With these somewhat contradictory epithets, Katrine kissed him, then and
there.

“Let’s get back to what we were talking of before, my dear,” said Boston.
“I can’t afford too much time here. Where is Theresa?”

“Somewhere about the house.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know, Boston; promise me—promise poor Katrine that you will not
lead her into any rash things, which may make her father angry; he is
none too kind to her since she saw dat young lieutenant, and they learned
to love each other. Dat’s de same time you and me tried it, you dear old
swindler.”

“The very time. Now, I ain’t going to make no rash promises. I don’t know
what _may_ happen; but, this I will promise—through my means, no harm
shall come to the gal. I like her for herself, and I like her for the
sake of Willie, who is the best young fellow I know.”

A clear, rich voice sounded at this moment in a merry song. Katrine held
up her hand.

“That’s her; who could have the heart to do her a wrong? Ah; she is
coming in here.”

The door was thrown open, and the singer stood upon the threshold like
a picture in a frame—a beautiful picture, too. Theresa Van Curter was
a rare type of her style of beauty—the blonde. Her fair hair, lustrous
and waving, was put back from a white forehead, and confined at the back
with an antique comb; her dress was suited to the station in which she
was placed, partaking something of the Indian character, and giving free
play to her limbs, a broad hat, which she had been wearing in her stroll
through the forest, was swung upon her arm, while her hand clasped a
bouquet of wild flowers she had gathered. She started in some surprise at
the appearance of Boston, and then, dropping the flowers and hat to the
floor, sprung forward.

“Oh, sir, you here! Have you any news?”

She paused in some confusion.

“You needn’t go on,” said Boston, “I never keep a lady waiting. I have a
letter for you.”

Theresa put out her hand quickly.

“It must be from _him_!”

“Yes, it’s from _him_. Your father tried hard to find it. He would give
me both Jerusalem and Jericho if he knew I had it. You see I calculated
on being searched, and hid the paper.”

“You did?”

“Yes, I did. Have you got such a thing as a knife around here? Thank you,
Katrine. What a famous little house-keeper you’ll make, having every
thing so handy about you! Take hold of my old cap and help me.”

A few moments’ work about the lining of the old hat which the hawker had
worn revealed a letter, which he took and handed to Theresa. She turned
away to the window, and read it hastily. A shade passed over her fine
face as she read.

“Is he well?” she asked, turning to Boston, who was engaged in a
flirtation with Katrine.

“Oh, yes, ma’am. You see he is out of spirits on your account, and that
runs him down some. But he is hearty. Just send him a cheery word, and
all will be well in the twinkling of an eye.”

“I am going to my room now, and shall write an answer to this. You must
remain until I come back. I shall not be long.”

She hurried away quickly, leaving Boston with Katrine—and they sat down
by the casement. They quarreled, and “made up” again, several times,
before Theresa appeared with an answer to the note.

“I have a little to say to you. Your father took me to-day, and made me
confess that I had a message to you.”

“Oh dear! You did not show him that letter?”

“Not a bit of it. But I told him that the message was verbal, and gave
him one of my own making up. Sounded natural enough. Faithful unto death,
and that sort of stuff. You understand.”

“And did not Willie send any such message to me?”

“A thousand; but I couldn’t think of half he said, if I were to spend a
week in meditation on the subject. You will take them all for granted.”

“I fancy that Willie had better change his messenger,” said Theresa, with
a pout. “I am sure he might do better.”

“I am sorry to say that _I_ think you are wrong,” replied Boston, coolly
stroking his beard. “There ain’t another man in the five provinces that
would do for you what I’ve done, time and again.”

“I am sorry I said that, Boston,” said Theresa, relenting quickly. “I
know you are faithful and true, but you ought to remember. Was my father
_very_ angry?”

“Very particularly angry,” replied Boston. “Looked as if he wanted to eat
all the tribe of Yankees, beginning with me.”

“Was he angry at me?”

“I calculate he _was_. I don’t want no one to be angrier with me, I
guess. He was _awful_ mad.”

“Then you had better go away. But first open your pack and let me get
what I need. We have waited a long time for you.”

“That’s because you can trust me. You know that, though I will beat Dutch
_men_ sometimes, I never try to beat women.”

“What a twister,” cried Katrine.

“Now don’t you put in at all, Katrine. I won’t have it. Let me trade with
Miss Theresa in my own way. You know I won’t try to cheat her.”

“But you do some women.”

“In trade I might. You stop talking, or the dress I am going to sell you
will fall to pieces in washing.”

The girl was bending over the pack when the commandant entered. He looked
a little angry when he saw the peddler.

“Don’t attempt to ply your trade here, sir. Go elsewhere.”

“Why, squire, as to that, the way I look at it is this: You gave me two
days to trade, and you didn’t say _where_ I should go in particular. You
didn’t buy any thing, and I thought your daughter might want a few traps.”

“Where do you intend to pass the night?”

“I don’t know. But surely some one will be glad to entertain me, and take
some of my wares in consideration. I’ve picked up a good many furs since
I came out here, and they are getting heavy. I can’t travel far in a day.”

“You should have a horse,” said Theresa, looking up from the pack, which
she was turning over after a woman’s fashion.

“I _did_ have one when I came, but old Paul Swedlepipe wouldn’t take ‘no’
for an answer, but would have him.”

“I’ll wager my commission that he paid for the horse,” said Van Curter,
with a laugh. “How much did he give you?”

“Seventy-five guilders. I look upon it in the light of a praiseworthy
action—_giving_ that hoss away.”

“Giving it away! S’death, man, I have a dozen horses, and you may have
the best of them for seventy-five guilders.”

“I’ll take a look into your stable before I go away,” said Boston. “In
the mean time, I’ve got something I want _you_ to look at.” He tumbled
over the wares and took out a pair of heavy spurs. “Now look at that,”
he cried, in a tone of exultant admiration. “Did you ever, in your born
days, see sech a pair of spurs as that? No you didn’t, so you needn’t say
it. I don’t say that they are the best pair of spurs in the Colonies, but
I put it to you, squire, can you put your finger upon a pair as good,
anywhere? If you can, I should be proud to know it.”

Van Curter took up the spurs and looked at them closely.

“Now tell me,” said he, “where is the cheat in this pair of spurs. I
take it for granted that there is such a thing about it, since a Yankee
brought them. Is it in the price, or in the articles themselves?”

“Oh, as to that,” replied Boston, with an air of injured innocence, “I
don’t say any thing. You will have it that there is a cheat in every
thing I offer for sale; but, if there is one there, _you_ can’t find it.”

Van Curter laughed again.

“Come now,” he said, “I am willing to take the spurs, and at your price,
too, if you will tell me just where the cheat is to be?”

“You will take them any way?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll tell you; or, rather, it won’t be necessary to tell you any
more than the price.”

“And what is the price?”

“Forty guilders.”

“Hein!” shouted Van Curter, breaking into Dutch. “Do you mean, seriously
and gravely, to ask me forty guilders for a pair of spurs not worth ten?”

“You wanted to know where the cheat was—in the spurs or the price. You’ve
got it. It’s in the _price_.”

“Der tuyvel! Hold; here is your money. And now take away your pack, or
you will ruin my house. Go quickly.”

“I was thinking to wait,” said Boston, coolly buttoning up the cash in
his breeches-pocket, “until the lady has made her selections; she don’t
seem to have finished.”

“Make your purchases quickly, Theresa, and come with me. I wish to speak
with you. Do not delay.”

Theresa gathered up her purchases and demanded the price. He gave such a
moderate one, even for him, that Van Curter was astonished, and made no
attempt to make the price less.

“You have some conscience yet, Bainbridge,” he said. “Here is your money.
Come, Theresa.”

The girl followed him from the room, casting a glance back at the
peddler, who had stooped over his pack, and was throwing out various
articles, at the bidding of Katrine.

“Do you know what I will bring from Boston when I come again?” said he.

“No,” said Katrine, with a smile. “What?”

“A ring and a minister.”

“What for?” asked Katrine, in sublime unconsciousness.

“If you don’t know now you will know then,” was the answer. “You’d better
have this dress made up against that time.” With this he kissed her
again, arranged his pack, and left the house, making his way back to the
house of Paul Swedlepipe.




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.”




CHAPTER VII.

AN OLD FOX AND A YOUNG ONE.


Carl Anselm rode swiftly up the fertile valley, making the most of the
Narragansett pony. He kept well to the west, away from the post at
Windsor, fearing that, if he met any of Holmes’ men, they might ask
awkward questions. The Nipmuck country proper was further north than
Windsor; but one of their villages, not a stationary one, stood not far
away. This was the village of Wampset, a sort of Indian bandit, who lived
like the gipsys, pitching his wigwams where he chose. He had fully one
hundred men in his village, the bravest and most restless spirits of his
nation. The Pequods, the Romans of New England, knew and hated Wampset.
Many a plan had been laid to surprise his village; but they had always
failed. The party which came, if stronger than Wampset, found only warm
ashes in the ruined lodges; but the Nipmucks had flown. Wampset claimed
no particular hunting-ground, but roamed from the most western border of
the Pequod country to the Connecticut, a river he never crossed.

The young German had heard of the whereabouts of Wampset, from a man of
the Nipmuck nation who had come into Good Hope a few days before. As
he approached the village, he took careful note of every thicket near
which he passed. All at once, the woods seemed alive with signals, and
stealthy footsteps could be heard. Carl knew he was hemmed in, and was
not surprised when an Indian of commanding presence stood in the path and
ordered him to pause. Carl had been skilled in Indian dialect.

“What would the white man here? He is far from the strong house of his
people.”

Carl took off the belt and held it up before the eyes of the man. He
started a little, and then assumed a calm attitude:

“Let the warrior look upon the belt,” said Carl. “Has he ever seen it?”

“He has. Where did the white man get it?”

“From one who sent me to seek the chief, Wampset, that I might speak a
word in his ear.”

The warrior turned and uttered a whoop. It was evidently an understood
signal, for the sound of retiring footsteps could be heard, and they were
alone. The warrior turned again to Carl:

“Wampset is always to be found by his friends, and by his enemies when he
_chooses_ to be found. Let the young man speak. Wampset is here.”

“Where?”

The savage laid his hand upon his naked breast, in an impressive and
graceful gesture. Carl could not doubt that he spoke the truth.

“There is a young war-chief upon the banks of the great river, to whom
the chief gave this belt. Long ago, the Indians gave the land to his
people. But the English people of Shawmut have come and built a strong
house upon the river. The young war-chief is coming to drive them away,
and he sent the belt to Wampset, that he may come to his aid with all his
men.”

The chief mused:

“I have seen the strong house of the people whom we call Yengees. They
will not go away if they can help it. But, my word is given to my young
brother, and I will go.”

“He said that you must meet him at the three hills, near the strong
house, at midnight to-night.”

“It is well. Let the young man come into the village.”

Carl followed him into the village, which consisted of huts formed only
for summer weather. In winter they had different habitations.

The chief led the way to his lodge, and invited his guest to sit upon a
pile of skins in one corner. A squaw brought in two large wooden bowls,
with spoons of the same material. One of the bowls contained boiled
venison, and the other parched corn. Flat, wooden dishes of the same
material as the rest, were placed in their hands, and the two made a
hearty meal, for the young man was tired by his long ride. When the meal
was over, they sat and conversed for an hour. Then the chief, thinking
that the young man looked as though he needed rest, left the lodge, and
Carl lay down upon the skins and slept.

He rose in about an hour, and went out into the village. He found the
warriors making preparations for a march. The chief joined him.

“Are not these cabins cold in winter?” asked Carl.

“The Indians do not dwell in such wigwams when the north wind blows
cold,” said the other. “There are pleasant places high up among the
hills, where the Pequods can not find us, and where we can live until the
sun is warm again.”

“You do not stay in one place long.”

“The knives of the Pequods are long, and their arrows sharp. They have no
love for Wampset. They come upon his lodges in the night; but, Wampset is
not a fool. He knows when to hide, and when to be found. The sparks are
not out in the lodges when the Pequods come, but the men of Wampset are
gone.”

“Do you ever fight them?”

“When they are not too many. The braves of Wampset have often sent them
howling back to their lodges. But when we are weak and they are strong,
we hide in the bush. Sassacus, sachem of the Pequods, would give much
wampum for the scalp of Wampset.”

“Does Wampset love the white chiefs at Windsor?”

“Wampset can not love the men who tread upon the graves of his fathers.
The Pequods are my enemies. By day and night they watch for the
camp-fires of Wampset; but they are brave, and they are _Indians_. Is the
white man owner of the soil? Did he receive it as an inheritance? No; it
is the land of the Indian. Pequod or Narragansett, Mohawk or Nipmuck, it
is _theirs_! No, Wampset does not love white men; but the young chief
who saved my life in battle is my friend. I will aid him, if it is in my
power.”

“I must not stay,” said Carl. “There is work before me. I will go out
toward the fort, and you must follow with your braves. Give me a token by
which I may pass your warriors in safety.”

The chief unclasped a wampum bracelet from his brawny arm, and fastened
it upon that of his young friend. “The Nipmuck doesn’t live,” said he,
“who would lay a finger upon the man who wears this. Go in peace.”

Carl rose, took up his rifle and left the lodge. His horse was tied to
a post near the door. He mounted and rode away toward the east. Wampset
looked after him with a half-sigh, for he saw in him a type of the men
before whom his nation was fading like dew in the sunshine.

Carl pursued his way until he struck the river a few miles from Windsor.
There was something peculiar in the temper of this young man. He was
relentless to his enemies—eager for their blood; but true as steel to
his friends. In his code, nothing was too much to do for the man who had
saved his life. To risk his own seemed to him a duty which he _must_
perform. Young as he was, he was a fit tool for such work as Joseph Van
Zandt assigned him. He had fled from the old country with the blood of
a brother on his hands—shed in a moment of anger. Others had felt his
steel, and the story had never been told. He thought it an easy way to
pay his debt to Joseph, merely by taking the life of William Barlow.

Approaching the trading-post, he paused and considered. He felt quite
certain that he might enter the place without fear, as there had been
no open rupture between the commandants of the two posts. But he was
naturally of a suspicious disposition, a feeling which is common to such
natures as his.

He finally rode into the place and was kindly received. He gave them
to understand that he had been out upon a scout at the command of Van
Curter, and had been chased by a part of the band of Wampset. They knew
that the young German was an active scout, and thought nothing of the
story. Willie and Boston Bainbridge had not yet come in. After finding
out all he cared to know, Carl rode away toward Good Hope, upon the trail
usually pursued by travelers. Once out of sight of the village, he went
aside from the path, took down his rifle and looked at the priming, and
sat down beside the trail, with a look of grim determination upon his
face.

       *       *       *       *       *

The two Englishmen, after their hasty flight from Good Hope, had pressed
on as fast as their feet would carry them toward Windsor. Boston’s
knowledge of the proposed assault caused him many an inward chuckle. He
gloried in the discomfiture of Van Zandt.

“I heard a fall,” said Willie, “while they were pursuing us from the
house. How was that, Bainbridge?”

“That,” replied Bainbridge, with an indescribable twist of his features,
“_was_ caused by the fall of—something.”

“A wise observation. What was it?”

“I would not be certain upon this point, worthy young man of war,” said
Boston. “I can not fight with carnal weapons. I am a man of peace, and
live by trade.”

“Don’t keep up that farce here, I beg you. I have laughed in secret at
the manner in which you have kept this character, until I am nearly past
laughing again. But, what is the use of keeping it up here?”

“It must be done, Willie. Until Good Hope is ours, and the Dutch driven
out of the valley, I am nothing but Boston Bainbridge. Do you think any
of them suspect, except Katrine?”

“Yes. Once or twice you have given orders in your usual tone. Van Zandt
heard you to-night, I am sure. Katrine and Theresa heard you. They are
pretty sharp people, and hard to blind.”

“Katrine is a darling,” said Bainbridge. “I hate to deceive her. But it
must all come right sometime. When she is my wife we can laugh together
over the life of a hawker.”

“I wonder what old Paul Swedlepipe and Ten Eyck are doing about this
time. Won’t the fellow tear when he sees that horse after the rain? Oh,
I would give fifty pounds to see his face at the time. This rain will
wash every grain of color off from his hide, and we should see a skeleton
instead of the horse I sold him. Never mind; we have a right to spoil the
Egyptians. Ha! The bush moves!”

The sudden exclamation caused Willie, who stood at his side, to start
back in some alarm. The movement saved his life, for the rifle of Carl
Anselm cracked at that moment, and the ball tore a bloody track through
the fleshy part of his arm. In an instant the bushes parted to the rush
of the body of Bainbridge. For a man of peace, he certainly behaved in
a wonderful manner. The movement was so sudden, that he was close to the
side of the would-be assassin before he could turn. Carl was no coward.
His courage had been proved in a hundred different ways. Drawing his
knife, he made a sudden rush at the hawker, and struck at him viciously
with the keen blade. Boston nimbly eluded the stroke and returned it by
a slashing blow, which laid open the cheek of the other, marking him for
life. As soon as he felt the wound, Carl turned and fled along the river
shore, at his best speed, with the hawker following like a sleuth-hound
on the trail. He passed round a point of rocks which completely hid him
from view. Bainbridge rushed forward, in time to catch a glimpse of the
German upon the back of his horse, which he had tied there for security.
His jeering laugh came back to them on the wind.

“He has escaped,” cried Boston, as Willie came up. “He got to his horse.
The devil fly away with him!”

“Is he hurt?”

“Yes. I laid open his cheek from the ear to the chin. The scoundrel. He
will carry my mark to the grave. That he may, is my fervent prayer. Do
you know him?”

“I have never seen him before.”

“I have. He is a minion of Van Zandt, or my name is not Bainbridge. It
is young Carl Anselm. That bullet was meant for you. How could he miss,
when he was not thirty feet away? The miserable scoundrel belongs in
Good Hope. They say his character is none of the best, even among his
associates. Let me see your arm.”

With some labor and pain, Willie stripped the jacket and shirt from the
wound and showed it to Bainbridge. It was a deep flesh-wound, and Boston
shook his head. Going down to the river bank, he gathered some leaves
from a plant which grew there. These he bruised into a poultice, with
which he bound the wounded limb.

“I know the nature of the herb,” he said. “An old Indian woman told me
about it, and tried it on a bear-scratch I once got in a fight with that
animal. It was wonderful in its effects.”

“It feels comfortable,” said Willie, placing the arm in a sling which the
other improvised from a sword-belt. “I will yet have the pleasure of
wringing the man’s neck who did me this favor.”

“He is no enemy to despise,” replied Boston. “When you have an open,
avowed enemy, you know how to guard against him; but a sneaking fellow
like this, who would shoot you from behind a bush, is more to be feared.
He is full of energy, and will come upon you in impossible places. In the
assault to-night, look out for _him_!”

“You think they will come, then?”

“They are not the men to be laggards. I can not understand what Carl was
doing here. He certainly was not sent out on purpose to shoot you. I
could give a reason if I knew where Wampset was.”

“I know just where he is encamped.”

“Where is he?”

“About twenty miles away. An Indian of the Narragansett tribe, who came
into Windsor the day after you left, told us where he was. I know that
man. He is an outcast from all tribes, and yet he maintains himself
against any force they can bring against him. He must have a powerful
mind.”

“He has. I have seen him once or twice, and he is a noble Indian. With
all his prejudices against the whites, he has none of the cold-blooded
animosity of Sassacus, nor the supercilious behavior of Mennawan. But
this news troubles me. I doubt not he will come to the aid of the Dutch,
for I have heard it said that Van Zandt once did him a great service
which the Indian will not hesitate to repay, and now is the Dutchman’s
time of want, if ever.”

“Then we have, indeed, much to dread, if Wampset is brought against us.”

“What Indians were at the post when you came away?”

“Only the young son of the Narragansett chief, the Fox.”

“None better. He is truly named. Let us hasten. Do you think he will stay
in Windsor?”

“He said he would until the full moon.”

“Good. Make haste.”

They hurried into the post. Catching sight of an idler near the gate,
Boston called him, and asked him if the “Fox” was yet in the post. Being
answered in the affirmative, he desired that he should be sent to him at
once.

Willie turned away, and entered a log-house in one corner of the
stockade, bestowing a smile of recognition upon a young Indian, who was
coming out. The latter made his way at once to Boston, who greeted him
kindly.

“How is the chief, your father?” he asked, touching the young man upon
the naked shoulder with his open palm. “How long will it be before he
will give the tribe into the hands of his son, who, though he is yet
young, has left his mark upon the enemies of his nation?”

“The chief is very well, and sends his greetings to the white chief; his
warriors hope it will be many years before he lays down the wampum of a
head chief for another to take up. Who is worthy to take the mantle of
Miantonomah?”

“None but his son, when Miantonomah is ready. The young chief has often
said that he only waits to do the white man a service. Will he do it
to-day?”

“When was the Fox unwilling to aid his white brothers?”

“It will take him into the forest.”

“That is well; the forest is his home.”

“He must keep his hatchet keen, for the Pequods may lurk along the track.”

“A Narragansett does not fear a Pequod.”

“It is well; now let the Fox listen.”

In a few decided words, the Yankee informed the young man what he wished
him to do. Having thoroughly mastered it and acquiesced in the service,
he took his weapons, tightened his belt, and left the post, taking the
trail which led to the camp of Wampset.




CHAPTER VIII.

“THERE’S MANY A SLIP ’TWIXT THE CUP AND THE LIP.”


Van Curter and his men made good time in their march to Windsor, and at
four o’clock in the afternoon they were encamped behind the three hills.
Hardly had they settled themselves to wait for night, when Carl Anselm
came in. His face was disfigured by the knife-cut; the blood lay in
thick clots about it, and his small eyes sparkled with vicious fire under
his heavy brows. He made his way at once to the place where Van Zandt
sat, under a large maple tree.

“Welcome, Carl,” said the captain. “In the name of the saints, what is
the matter with your face?”

“I have taken the mark in your service,” replied the other, angrily.
“Come away from the rest and I will tell you how.”

The captain followed him to a retired spot, then called upon him to speak.

“I waited in the path for the coming of your enemy until I became weary
and fell asleep; their voices woke me as they came, and I started up so
quickly that the bush stirred. He was not alone.”

“Ah-ha!”

“No; that cursed spy—for he is nothing better—Bainbridge, was with him.
Sturm and wetter! I will have _his_ heart’s blood upon my own account.”

“On with your tale, quick. You fired, did you not?”

“Yes. As the bush stirred, Bainbridge called out to his companion, and he
jumped; if he had not done it, a ball would have been in his heart. My
curse upon the meddler.”

“Then he escaped?” demanded the other, hoarsely.

“Escaped. Not fully, for my ball struck him on the arm, and there was
blood starting through his clothing. Before I could look, that devil,
whom we call the peddler, was upon me with an open knife. I had mine in
my hand, and made a blow at him. He is quick as a cat; he dodged the
knife, and struck at me. You see the result. I lay that wound up against
him. I shall do him mischief yet.”

“What did you do then?”

“I saw that he was not what he seemed, and more than a match for me, I
dropped the knife and ran for my horse, I had tied him in a ravine by the
river-side. Curse the Yankee, he was like a greyhound; if there had been
twenty rods more to run I should be a dead man; but I got to my horse and
was off.”

“It is a total failure, then?”

“Not so. Before, I worked only for you; now I work for both. I have an
account with the man who calls himself Boston Bainbridge.”

“You might have had before, if you had any eyes. You love Katrine, the
cousin of Theresa.”

The young man turned upon him with a quick look. “Who told you that?” he
said.

“It matters not.”

“Why do you bring her into the conversation?”

“Have you no eyes? Why, man, the other night, while Barlow stood at the
window of my willful maid, whispering in her ear, whom think you stood at
that of Katrine?”

“Who?”

“Boston Bainbridge.”

“You know this to be true? It is not a trick to make me more surely your
friend?”

“I saw it myself.”

“Ah.” Carl stopped, and with his knife-blade stabbed the earth at his
feet. “Would that I had him here,” he cried, “would that I knelt upon his
breast as I kneel upon the earth. He is my enemy until death.”

“You never knew this?”

“I knew that she was proud, and would not listen to me. I hoped for
better things; I thought that a lover’s persistency would bring about the
desired end, and this is the re—result.”

His countenance became as that of a fiend; in the heat of his passion
the blood gushed anew from his wounded face. He caught some of it in his
hand, and cast it from him, crying passionately:

“Let this blood witness against him.” After that he was calmer.

“We will work together, my master; much may be done where there is a good
heart in the cause. I am with you, body and soul.”

“The compact is made. By knife, cord and bullet, I will be true to you in
this business.”

“So let it be,” responded Carl.

“Have you seen Wampset?”

“Yes. Before nightfall he will be here with a hundred men.”

“Well done. The English power shall be swept from this river; our enemies
shall be—where?”

“It matters little so that they cumber the earth no more. It is time
Wampset were here.”

“You are sure he will keep his appointment?”

“The promise of an Indian is sure. He will keep his word.”

“Did you look over the block-house and note the entrances?”

“Yes. There are eighteen men in all, now that this spy and Barlow are
here; the whole is under the command of William Holmes; his second in
command is his brother, who is away in Boston.”

“His brother?”

“Yes.”

“I never heard of such a man until I came here.”

“Few have; he is seldom seen; people who live in this region know that
there is such a man as Robert Holmes. He tramps the forest, makes
treaties with the Indians, and prepares the country for the next inroad
of Yankees. No man can put his finger on him and say, ‘This is Robert
Holmes,’ and yet, he is a fixed fact. The people in Windsor have great
faith in him, but are non-committal about him.”

“He is a mystery, then?”

“One which we can not unravel. Some of our people swear that Robert
Holmes is only a name for a devil, who has taken up his abode at Windsor.
I begin to think it is half right, for who but a devil could exert such
an influence over Yankees?”

“Phew, such talk as that will do for other men than us; as for this
imaginary potentate, if there is such a man, we probably shall meet him
to-night, and try the virtue of cold steel upon him. I wonder Wampset is
not here; he is not a man to shirk his appointment. Who comes there? Is
this the way they keep guard?”

An Indian, gliding forward like a stealthy ghost, at that moment appeared
before him. At the first look, Van Zandt knew him; it was one of the
men who belonged to the band of Wampset—his messenger, a light, active
fellow, with a cunning face.

The first salutation of the captain was sharp and to the point, “Where is
Wampset? It is long since the chief was known to linger on the war-trail.”

“Wampset has not lingered. But, he can not come to the aid of his young
friend. The Hawk hovers with outspread wings above his tree-top. Shall
not the Eagle guard his own nest first?”

“What mean you?”

“Sassacus has sent Mennewan upon the war-trail. A dog who had eaten bread
in our lodges told the Pequods that the Eagle rested his tired wings upon
the banks of the great river. The Pequods are very mad for the scalp of
Wampset, and his band are known in every lodge in the nation. They are
very brave.”

“How do you know this?”

“The band had painted their faces for war and set forth. Near the
river-side they met the Fox. He is the son of Miantonomah, sachem of the
Narragansetts. The Fox is very cunning, and he loves Wampset. He has
sworn to have the scalp of Sassacus. He told us that he had been in the
Pequod lodges, and they were on the way. They did not know that he was
with them. None are so cunning as the Fox.”

“What did he do then?”

“What could he do? Should he leave his little ones a prey to the
tomahawks of the Pequods?”

This was unanswerable, and Van Zandt could only mutter curses on the
unlucky fate which had worked against him. If he had only known the
truth, _fate_ would not have had the curses on that day. But, curses
would do no good. Wampset was by this time half way back to his camp,
and the Fox, who had done his work well, was back in Windsor, reporting
to his employer the success of the stratagem. As the reader has no doubt
surmised by this time, the coming of the Pequods was a coinage of the
brain of Boston, who hoped by this to send the Indians back to their
camp. The ruse succeeded to a charm, and deprived the Dutch of their
allies.

There was nothing for it but to take the place without help, and Carl,
in company with Captain Van Zandt, set out to reconnoiter the position.
It was now growing dark, and they advanced with caution. All about the
stockade was still. The silence, in fact, was so profound as to be
suspicious. Van Zandt, a practiced Indian-fighter, had his suspicions of
such quiescence. He advanced carefully. There was only one light in the
stockade. That was a fire in the center, around which sat four or five
of the garrison. They were all stalwart men, for Captain Holmes brought
no others into the wilderness. The spy could see through the chinks that
their arms lay beside them, and ready to take up at a moment’s notice.

In the mean time, Carl had stolen round to the other side of the
building, and looked through the chinks in the logs. The cabin in which
the officers lived stood close at hand, and through another orifice in
the logs, the young German could see the interior. There were three men
in the cabin—Barlow, Captain Holmes and Boston. They sat upon stools,
by the side of a wooden table, talking eagerly in low tones. From the
place where he stood, it was impossible for Carl to hear a word. But,
to his astonishment, he saw that Boston not only took an active part in
the conversation, but his opinion was listened to with great deference.
Carl’s blood boiled in his veins. Since the last night, an intense hatred
of the peddler had grown up in his heart. This was the man who had stolen
the heart of Katrine. He should die.

He drew a pistol from his pocket, and leveled it through the chinks. The
light of a candle upon the table glimmered along the barrel. He pulled
the trigger. The hammer came down upon the flint without a report. The
priming had been shaken out of the pan in coming from the camp. With a
muttered invective Carl slipped behind the logs of the stockade and felt
for his powder-flask. He had left it in the camp! The passion of the man
was fearful to see. He ran back to find his captain, and lead him to the
spot. The moment his eye rested upon the group he put a pistol into the
hand of Carl. “Hold,” he said, as that person was about to fire. “Don’t
do it. We must get nearer, and hear what they say.” The stockade was
about twelve feet high, but the corners were rough, and stood out about
six inches from the rest of the work, forming a sort of ladder. Van Zandt
took the lead, climbed over, and dropped down into the work, between the
wall and the cabin.

The conversation continued; but, to the rage of the two spies, it was
now carried on in whispers. It was impossible to hear a word. Twice Carl
raised his pistol, and as often he was restrained by the hand of his
leader, who had no notion of betraying their presence by a shot, while
they were inside the fort. He feared the men who sat by the fire.

“In God’s name,” whispered Carl, “are you going to let him escape? I must
fire.”

“Who do you speak of?”

“He. That devil, Bainbridge.”

“I have not so much quarrel with him as with Barlow. Let us get out of
this. I tell you you must not, _shall_ not fire. Come.”

Carl obeyed, sullenly enough. They climbed the wall without molestation,
and reached the other side. All at once the captain was startled by the
report of a pistol, and saw Carl looking through the crack, with the
pistol still smoking in his hand. A terrible uproar was heard in the
cabin.

“Run for it, captain,” shouted Carl. “Missed him,” he hissed, in his
desperation.

They ran in silence until they reached the edge of the woods, when Van
Zandt turned, and took his companion by the throat. The epithets he
exhausted upon him were of the most fearful nature. Carl shook him off
with an angry gesture.

“Take your hand from my throat, Captain Joseph. You ought to know, by
this time, that the blood of the Anselms is hot, and can not brook an
insult. Hands off, I said!”

“You infernal hound! Did I not order you not to fire?”

“I know it. If I had expected to die the next moment, I would have fired
that pistol. I will have him yet. He is doomed. Either he or I.”

“Little cares he for such as you are. Fool, do you not see the immense
advantage this man has over you in every point. He is cool; your blood
is like fire. He calculates every chance; you act upon the first thought
which enters your crazy head. You have, doubtless, by this rash act,
spoiled our chance of taking the stockade. If you have, I am not the man
to shield you from the rage of Van Curter.”

“Take your own course,” replied Carl, angrily. “I care not. You had
better look to it, or you will cancel the bond between us.”

This was what Van Zandt did not care to do, and he begun to conciliate
the man. This led him back to the subject of Bainbridge.

“The unquiet beast stooped for a paper he had dropped just as I fired.
What has happened to me? Is my aim gone? When was I ever known to miss
such shots as these?”

They hurried back to camp, and put the men in order for the attack. When
they approached a change had taken place in the aspect of affairs. The
works were now brilliantly lighted. Pitch-pine torches blazed in every
crevice; the bright barrels of guns glistened along the wall. Van Curter
halted his men and came forward, demanding a parley.

“It shall be granted,” cried a voice from within. “Wait.”

In a few moments the door of the stockade swung open, and two men came
out. They were Captain Holmes and Barlow. Calling Van Zandt to his side,
Van Curter advanced to meet them.

“You have seen me once before,” said Holmes, “and know I have authority.
What has the commandant to say to me.”

“I am in the service of the Dutch republic. When you passed up the river,
on your way to this place, I warned you to strike and stay. You refused,
and kept on your course! I was not in a position then to enforce my
commands. I had even made up my mind to tolerate you, as well as I might.
But, since you have been here, the riot and disturbance caused by your
men are beyond the power of my nature to endure longer.”

“Of what do you complain?”

“You are a cheating set.”

“Ah!”

“You sell my men horses which are good for nothing.”

“They ought to know better than to buy.”

“But they don’t. Your men make a very bad horse look beautiful. There is
one vagabond among you whom I will give forty stripes save one, if he
ever comes to Good Hope. I have sworn it.”

“What is his name?”

“Boston Bainbridge.”

“Ah, indeed! What has Boston been doing?”

“Every thing that is bad; nothing that is good. I will make him wish that
he had never been born. He sold a horse to one of my council for a very
high price, bought it back for five guilders, and sold it to another man
for a hundred and fifty.”

“And you intend to flog him?”

“Surely.”

“I can’t do better than to warn him to keep out of your way when I see
him again. Boston _is_ a cheat in _one_ way. But to business. You have
run out of your course to talk of him. What are the men of Good Hope
doing here?”

“You are on our land. We claim it as the right of our country, in the
name of Hendrick Hudson, the man whom your country would not honor, and
who came to us for his due. You must break up this trading-house, and
take yourself again to your sloop, get out of the country, and keep out
of it.”

“You are modest in your demands, sir. I will say that for you. What if I
refuse?”

“You see these men?”

“Yes.”

“They have arms in their hands.”

“I see the arms. They are very rusty. You don’t use them much, I guess.”

“If you refuse we shall take the place.”

“Perhaps you mean you will _try_ to take it.”

“We will _take_ it,” said Van Zandt, speaking for the first time.

“If you can,” replied Barlow, returning the Dutchman’s look of hate and
defiance.

“Be quiet, Willie,” said the captain. “It can do no good. Now, sir, to
your demand. I hold this post in the name and by the authority of my
monarch, king of England. I care nothing for other powers. My force is
not large; but, while I or any of my officers or men can lift an arm in
its defense, no Dutchman shall enter the block-house, except as a friend.
If he comes as an enemy we will give him English steel.”

“You speak plainly.”

“I speak as I feel. Twice to-day murder has been attempted by one of your
men. We know him. His name is Carl Anselm, and he is a servant of Captain
Van Zandt.”

“Murder!”

“Nothing else. This morning he fired from a bush and missed my lieutenant
here, or rather wounded him in the arm, though his intent was to kill.”

“The other?”

“That occurred to-night. The captain and his servant came down together
to reconnoiter. While the captain was on one side of the building, his
servant snapped a pistol at one of my officers through a chink in the
logs. Then they climbed over the wall at the corner.”

“The devil!” cried Joseph.

“You see we were not altogether uninformed in regard to your movements,
sir. You climbed over the wall and listened at the chink in the cabin. We
whispered, and you could not hear what we said.”

“_Are_ there devils upon earth?” muttered Joseph, in utter astonishment.

“Your man still wanted to fire, and you restrained him. You climbed the
wall first, and as your back was turned, Carl fired the pistol, and
missed. Is the account correct?”

“Perfectly. And now tell me, if you will do so, how you know all this?”

“Certainly. You were watched all the time. And since Mynheer Van Curter
has thought proper to speak of one of my men, and of the punishment he
intends to give him, let me say that I have my eye on this Carl Anselm.
If he falls into my hands he shall not taste a whipping-post, but he
shall have a ride on a higher horse than any he has ever saddled. And he
will find it a tough colt to ride. I shall hang him as sure as my name is
Holmes.”

“You refuse to surrender?”

“Utterly—and I advise you to clear out at once.”

“The consequences must light upon your own head then.”

“I am ready to abide them. My stockade is strong, and I have men enough
to man it. If you try to take it you will have to fight. It is useless
to prolong this conference. Let me bid you good-night.”

As they turned to leave, Barlow saw some men creeping up in the rear, led
by Carl. He whispered to the captain. He turned quickly, when Van Curter
laid hands upon him, and attempted to detain him. Willie found himself
in the grasp of Joseph. With one effort of his prodigious strength,
Holmes dashed Van Curter breathless to the ground, and turned to the aid
of Willie. But, the young men, clinching, had fallen, and Joseph’s head
struck the earth with such force as to deprive him of his senses. Rising
quickly, the two turned toward the stockade. There were seven men between
them and the gate—unarmed, however, as they had intended to overpower the
officers—not to harm them. Holmes measured the distance to the gate with
his eye, threw forward his chest, bringing his fists up to his sides. The
Dutchmen gathered in a body to seize them as they started to run for the
gate. As the two men came near they increased their speed, and came down
upon the little group with the might of giants; using their hands in a
manner which astounded their would-be captors. Carl, who threw himself
directly in Willie’s path, got a “facer” from the one uninjured arm which
sent him down as if struck by a bullet, with a broken nose. Right and
left went the Dutchmen, the dull thud of the blows sounding ominously of
defeat to them. At last the two men broke through the crowd and reached
the stockade, breathing hard, but not in the least hurt.

“The scoundrels,” said one of the garrison. “Say the word, captain, and
we will go out and whip the entire lot.”

“That word I won’t say. I think too much of my men. What are they doing,
Bailey?”

“Picking up the broken bones and taking them away. Oh, sir, if you could
only have seen the blow the lieutenant gave the Dutchman who was here
this morning!”

“I am glad he got a stroke at him. I will hang that fellow yet.”

“Here comes Van Curter again, sir,” said one of the men. “What shall I
say to him?”

“Give him a shot. Be careful not to hit him; only give him a hint to keep
out of way or he will get hurt.”

The man obeyed. Van Curter, seeing the uselessness of further parley,
formed his men in the woods and made ready for the attack. Holmes threw
more wood on the fire, ordered his men to cheer, which they did with a
will, and waited.

“Do you think they will try it,” asked the captain of Barlow.

“I don’t know,” he replied. “We are ready for them in any case.”




CHAPTER IX.

CUDGELS TO THE FRONT.


Van Curter did not intend to give up without a struggle. The attempt to
take the officers prisoners was made at the instigation of Captain Van
Zandt, who argued that they were to the garrison at Windsor what the
head is to the body, and that the head once off the body is useless. How
poorly they succeeded has been seen. Still at their posts within the
fort, Holmes knew that they were gathering to attack him. He passed the
word to the men to fight steadily.

Van Curter’s men advanced from four sides, bearing ladders hastily
constructed, with which to scale the walls. Even now Holmes did not like
to use his rifles on them, and called on them to stay. They only answered
by yells of defiance, and quickened their pace. Holmes reluctantly gave
the order to fire.

The balls whistled about the ears of the Dutch. Several of them were
wounded, but none killed. The injured were hurried to the rear, and the
rest planted their ladders and begun the ascent. Holmes, who did not like
to kill any of them, ordered his men to throw down the ladders as fast as
they were placed. As there were generally two or three men on each ladder
when they fell, bruises and broken ribs resulted.

“Cudgels to the front!” cried out a laughing voice at this juncture.

The men turned. Boston Bainbridge was just coming out of the cabin,
carrying an armful of stout oak cudgels, which he had been smoothing so
as to fit the hand. These he distributed to the men, who received them
with lusty cheers.

“Throw open the gate,” cried Boston. “We shall show these knaves that
we do not fear them. What do they mean by coming against us with empty
hands. They will bring guns next time.”

The gates were flung open with a will, and the eighteen men of the
garrison found themselves opposed by about twenty-five Dutchmen, the
rest having been placed _hors de combat_ in various ways. But, they were
not the men to yield tamely, and catching up clubs and stones, they met
the sortié bravely. Foremost among the party from the stockade, Boston
Bainbridge came—not the Boston who sold his wares in Good Hope, but an
active forester, eager for a fray. Carl Anselm, with his bruised and
distorted face, looking fiendlike under the glare of the fires, rushed at
him with a knife in his hand. But he went down at once like an ox under
the ax of the butcher. The Dutch tried in vain to stand up before the men
of Windsor. They were driven from the field, and made their way back to
camp, dragging their wounded with them.

Next day they went back to Good Hope. They wanted to be as far as
possible from the long-armed men of Windsor. With curses both loud and
deep, Van Curter led his men home, closed his gates, and sat down to
think.

“Who is Boston Bainbridge?” he asked of Captain Van Zandt.

“The devil himself,” replied that worthy.

“At least, he is something more than a peddler. Did you see him fight?
Our men went down like grass before the mower. He has powerful arms.”

“Poor Carl is disfigured for life. First, that blow he took from Barlow
spread his nose all over his face, and now his head is broken. He will go
mad if he does not get revenge.”

“Where is he?”

“The surgeon has him.”

“That was a bad failure.”

“Bad! I should think so. But who, I ask you, would have thought it
possible for two men to escape from such a net? I would have periled my
soul on my power to hold Barlow; but my head struck a stone. That will be
settled sometime. When we meet again with swords in our hands, one or the
other must die. Where is Theresa?”

Van Curter pointed to the door of the next room. The young man rose,
pushed open the door, and entered. Theresa sat at a table, engaged in
some household duty. She looked up with an odd sort of smile as he
entered.

“Have you no welcome for me, Theresa?” he asked, in a tone of passionate
entreaty.

“Would it not be better, Joseph, for us to cease at once at _playing_
friendship, when I, at least, have not a spark of respect for you in my
heart?”

“When did I become so hateful to you?” he asked, in a low tone.

“I was afraid of you always; but the time from which I ceased to hold
even respect toward you was when you struck your hand upon this table,
and swore to kill Willie Barlow.”

“You do not remember, Theresa, that those words were spoken in the heat
of passion, aroused by your refusal of me. Would a man with any heart
have said less? Listen to me, Theresa Van Curter, and mark my words well.
You have it in your power to make for yourself and for me a glorious
destiny. I have influence in the old world. There is nothing I can not
claim in the way of honor and wealth. My love for you is so entire that
you can shape me as you will. My nature only needs a guiding hand—a
loving, tender, womanly hand like yours. Be my wife. We will turn our
backs forever upon this new country and all its bad associations, and
make a new life in our own fatherland.”

Theresa mused. His appeal had been so impassioned, so full of heart, that
it was not in her nature to hurt his feelings. He noted her indecision:

“You hesitate, my darling! I have not given you time enough. You want
more. Take it. Weeks, months, a year! I can wait, only give me some hope,
and promise that you will no longer listen to this plotting Englishman.”

“Do not deceive yourself, Joseph,” she said. “It is not in my power to do
as you ask. Spare me any longer speech upon the subject. It is only just
to me that you should cease.”

“You are hasty; you should take time.”

“This was decided some time since,” she returned, quietly gathering up
some things from the table, and placing them in a box at her side.

“It then remains for me to tell you what may result, if you push me too
far. Remember, I can bear, and have borne much for your sake. There is
only one way by which you can save yourself and him.”

“You have no power over him,” she answered, with a curl of her proud lip.
“What may be the way in which we may be _saved_?”

“By being my wife.”

“Death before such a redemption! Do you use threats to me?”

“Not at all. I never threaten. I act, as you and your minion shall find.
I bid you good-night, Theresa Van Curter—as a lover, forever. In after
times we may meet again, and you shall say that I am not a man to be
despised. Give you good-night.”

The door closed behind him, and Theresa was alone. Once rid of his
presence, and the firmness which had sustained her through the interview
gave way; she dropped her head upon the table, and gave way to a flood of
tears.

The night came, dark and gloomy, and Theresa retired early. The men of
Good Hope, tired by their fruitless expedition, sunk into repose. There
was no rain, though the clouds covered the whole face of the sky. Theresa
could not sleep; she rose, threw on a light wrapper, and sat at the
latticed casement, the place where Willie had so often come.

A dark figure rose outside the window, and a scream rose to her lips,
which was hushed by a low “hist” from the stranger. She threw open the
casement with care. It was Willie.

“I have not time to exchange a word,” he said, kissing her. “Whatever
happens to-night, keep to your room. Warn Katrine, also; but be
cautious.”

With these words he was gone, and she sat in breathless expectation. An
hour dragged by, when, all at once, there rose upon the still night air
the shouts of men in combat. The Windsor men had turned the tables and
attacked Good Hope!

Cheers and execrations mingled upon the sultry air. Dark forms flitted to
and fro in the gloom. The Windsor men had followed close upon the trail
of the men of Good Hope, and attacked them at the hour when the senses of
all but the guards were locked in slumber. Indeed, some of the men yet
lingered in the works before the assault came.

In a very short space the outer work was won, and the Dutch driven into
the houses within the works. These they barricaded, and prepared to make
a vigorous resistance.

At the first alarm, Van Zandt and Van Curter were upon their feet and
seized their weapons. In the _melée_ outside, they were separated in some
way, and were driven into different houses. The one in which the captain
took refuge was that of the commandant. Carl was with him.

There were three of these houses in the works, built of logs, notched
and squared at the end. They were solid structures, capable of resisting
a very strong force. About twenty in the garrison were fit for duty, of
whom ten were in one house, under Van Curter, seven under Van Zandt,
while, by a series of unlucky accidents, Paul Swedlepipe, Ten Eyck and
Hans Drinker were by themselves. As neither of these worthies would be
dictated to by the other, the house was divided against itself. All the
rest of the men were either wounded or prisoners.

“You look a little out,” said Hans, “unt see if dem Yankees out dar’,
Paul Swedlepipe.” The Dutchmen, as if the occasion called for it, now
talked in English.

“Vat you dink, Hans Drinker? You dells _me_ vas I must do? No. _You_ go
look mit your own eyes, schoost like pung in a peer barrel.”

“I pe de oldest; I commands dis house,” said Ten Eyck.

“Don’t you vant to puy a _horse_?” demanded Paul, in a threatening tone,
by way of reminding his adversary of the battle they had fought in the
horse-corral. Ten Eyck subsided instanter.

“I commands dish house,” asserted Drinker, “by orders mit te commandant.”

“You’s a liar,” said Ten Eyck.

“So he is,” said Paul, “and you’s a pigger liar.”

At this moment a sound was heard like the ripping up of a bark roof. All
three cast their eyes upward.

“Vat’s dat?” asked Ten Eyck.

“You go and see,” replied Paul.

“I’ll see you in—Amsterdam first,” answered the other, stoutly. “You go,
Hans Drinker.”

“I won’t,” said Hans. He lighted his pipe, and sat down to smoke. Paul
and Ten Eyck followed his example.

The ripping of boards continued, and something could be heard dropping
upon the floor above.

“Something cooms into dis ’ous’,” quoth Hans, taking his pipe from his
mouth to say it.

“Dink so myself,” rejoined Paul.

“Yaw, den vas shall happen?”

“You go see.”

“Nix—nay—_no_! You go, Ten Eyck.”

“Nein!” thundered Ten Eyck, puffing away with great vigor at the long
pipe. As he spoke, the doorway was darkened, and four of the detested
Windsor men sprung into the room. They had mounted the roof, torn off the
bark roofing, and dropped into the garret.

“Surrender!” cried the foremost, as he drew near. “No use of fighting.
Who commands here?”

“Me!” burst simultaneously from three pair of lips.

“All of you, eh? A corporate body, this. Come, boys, let’s bind these
fellows fast and leave them.”

With this benevolent intention he approached Hans Drinker. When he came
near enough, it suddenly occurred to the Dutchman that it would be no
more than his duty to fight a little. Accordingly, he unexpectedly let
go his right fist, taking the Yankee under the ear. This prowess excited
the others to feats of valor. Paul seized a stool upon which he had been
seated, and hurled it at the head of his adversary. Ten Eyck grabbed the
poker from the wide fireplace, and attacked his adversary with great zeal.

But fire soon burns out when the fuel is scant. Hans, conceiving that he
had done his duty to the State of Holland, submitted to be bound, after
knocking down his man. This left four men to two. Paul was overpowered in
a moment; but Ten Eyck retreated to a corner, from which he menaced all
who dared approach with the poker. This at first excited laughter on the
part of the men, but soon turned to anger at his pertinacity. He stood
near the fire and thrust the poker into the hot coals when it was likely
to become cool.

“This Dutchman is too hot,” said one of the men. “Let us cool him.”

A large tub of dirty water stood in one corner of the room. Two of the
men brought this and placed it in front of the obdurate Hollander.

“Will you give up?” cried the leader.

“Nein!” replied Ten Eyck. “Never so long as I pe shoost as I am.”

“Lift her, boys!” was the order. The two men raised the tub from the
floor. “One—two—three—and away!”

The contents of the tub were discharged upon the person of Ten Eyck,
cooling his ardor and poker at the same time. As he stood there, with the
water running in streams from every angle upon his figure, the men threw
themselves upon him, and tied him neck and heels.

“That job is done,” said the leader. “Now, boys, follow me, but you, Seth
Mather, had better stay with the prisoners.”

One of the men sat down to keep guard, and the rest passed out into the
open space within the works. The rest of the men stood there, waiting for
the issue of the work upon the first house. The leader reported.

“You have done well,” said Holmes. “Very well, indeed. Let us hail this
house.”

He approached the building in which Van Curter was, with the strongest
party in the works. In answer to his hail, Van Curter himself came to the
window.

“Who is there?” he cried.

“King George and Captain Holmes, of Windsor.”

“To what am I to attribute the honor of this visit?”

“To my ardent desire to return your late courteous visit to my quarters.
It’s a reciprocation of favors. We Yankees never like to be in debt long
for such things.”

“Bah! you talk too much, like all Englishmen. Do you design to take this
post?”

“I do. I have now more men than you. Counting the wounded, those taken
prisoners at the first rush, and those in yonder house, half your force
is out of the battle. You have just seventeen men.”

“You are well informed.”

“I always aim to be so. Do you surrender?”

“Give me an hour to consider?”

“I will give you five minutes.”

“Your demands are hard. What are your terms?”

“You will find them easy. You shall have permission to march out under
your own colors, with your arms and personal property. We want nothing
but the House of Good Hope.”

“We shall keep our colors?”

“Yes, even to the red color of your noses.”

“And our side-arms?”

“Every thing that is Dutch.”

“In short, all you demand is the surrender of the work itself?”

“Precisely; clear out—that is all.”

“Then I will open the door; your terms are generous, and I believe are
made in good faith.”

“You must submit to be imprisoned in one of the houses until all your men
are in my hands.”

“I will attend to that,” said Van Curter. “Place a guard upon my men here
and come with me.”

The doors were thrown open. The ten men were placed in a room by
themselves and a guard placed over them. Holmes, Willie and Van Curter
now proceeded toward the other house, and Van Curter called the name of
Captain Van Zandt. He knew the voice and came to the window immediately.

“Is that you, Van Curter?” he asked.

“It is I; open.”

“Are the English gone?”

“No.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I have surrendered.”

“Coward!”

“Be careful, sir! I repeat, I have surrendered the place. It was useless
to resist. The terms are noble. We are to be allowed to march out with
drums and colors, and make our way to the islands. Our private property
is ours. In short, better terms were never given. Therefore open your
doors and give yourselves up.”

“I never drew a cowardly breath in my life, Van Curter. This house is my
castle; I will keep it against all who come against it.”

“I tell you I have surrendered,” shouted Van Curter.

“And I tell _you_ that _I_ have _not_! And, what is more, I don’t intend
to. I have a strong house, and the best of your men, and the morning is
at hand. I will give a good account of myself, and drive the ragamuffins
of Captain Holmes back to their filthy quarters.”

“You use modest terms,” said Holmes.

“Ah-ha. You are there, Yankee? I give you good-night.”

“You refuse to surrender?”

“Yes; refuse to the bitter end.”

“Then we must make you do it.”

“Do it if you can.”




CHAPTER X.

A NIGHT IN BONDS.


Holmes stepped back and took a survey of the building. His practiced eye
at once took in its strong points. The doors were of hewn oak, crossed
by heavy iron clamps. On the inside, so Van Curter told them, were heavy
bars of seasoned wood, tough and elastic as so much steel, set into iron
rings upon either side of the door. These bars were four in number, at
equal distances from each other. No common power could force one of these
doors from its fastening. These entrances were two in number, one at
the front and one at the back. The windows were seven in number; two
in front, two on each side, and one at the back of the house, fastened,
like the doors, by solid wooden bars. These particulars they gained from
Van Curter, who was angry at the young captain for refusing to yield. He
determined to try him once more, but found him very obstinate. He then
demanded that his daughter should be permitted to leave the house. This
was refused at once.

“Let me understand you, Joseph. Do you mean to tell me, seriously, that
you intend to keep my daughter in the house during the attack which will
be made upon it?”

“I do.”

“Then by that act you at once cancel any trust between us.”

“Let it be as you say. I will make a new bond between us.”

“Will you let my daughter and her cousin go?”

“No, I will not.”

“Why?”

“I keep them as a safeguard. They are the tools by which we will drive
these Yankees away from Good Hope. You will understand it better when you
know that there is to be no childs’-play here—no fighting with cudgels,
as we fought at Windsor. But, with bullet, knife and sword we will make
the house good. Every ball from a rifle which enters this house will put
the life of your daughter in jeopardy. Katrine also will be in danger,
which _is_ a pity, since she is beloved by worshipful Boston Bainbridge.
Where is that godly youth? He should be here to defend her.”

At these words there was a slight commotion in the rear of the group, and
a man strode forward and addressed the captain. It was Boston Bainbridge.
But, what a change had taken place in him! His hair, before rugged and
unkempt, was now allowed to fall loose upon his shoulders after the
manner of the cavaliers. He was carefully and richly dressed; the belt
which encircled his waist bore a long sword and a pair of pistols. His
air was defiant, as seen in the gory light of the coming morning.

“You have called for Boston Bainbridge,” said he, “and he who hath borne
that name for years now stands before you in his own person, Lieutenant
Robert Holmes. What is this I hear? Does yonder knave dare to make women
a target for his protection? How now, sir; do you claim to be a _man_,
and yet need a woman for a safeguard?”

“So Boston Bainbridge is dead, and one has arisen who is of my degree,
and we may cross swords with honor. What care I for what man can say of
me? I know my power. The fair Theresa is in my hands; Katrine is in those
of Carl Anselm. Believe me when I say that they might better be in the
hands of the devil. Draw off your men and leave the place, or we will do
that which will make you and them wish they had never been born. Away, I
say.”

The fearful threat implied in the words of Van Zandt startled his
listeners; there was a quick glance from man to man, to see if every face
looked as ghastly as each felt his own to be. The girls were in the power
of this villain indeed. How could they be succored?

“Joseph,” said the commandant, in a pleading tone. “Remember that we have
been friends for many years, and that I have ever listened kindly to your
suit. You are jesting now. You would not harm my child. Throw open your
doors and let us enter.”

“I will not. We will fight while a hope remains, and when that hope is
gone, you shall have your daughter, as she will be then, not as she is
now!”

“God’s curse upon you, villain. Do you not heed a father’s agony?”

“Not a whit. You have given up the work like a coward, and I no longer
respect you.”

“This shall be answered at the sword’s point,” cried Van Curter, striking
his hand upon his sword-hilt until it rung loudly in the scabbard.

“As you will. I fight no old man without teeth unless he forces it upon
me. Your young friends there might take it off your hands.”

“And they shall!” cried Robert Holmes, Boston Bainbridge no more. “Or my
right hand has forgot its cunning. Hark you, sir; _dare_ you come out and
fight me?”

“I hope I am not such a fool. What surety have I that I should ever see
the inside of this house again?”

“My word.”

“Bah! The word of Boston Bainbridge!”

“Boston Bainbridge is dead. I stand here in his place, a man of honor and
of family, and dare you to the fight.”

“It will not do,” replied the other. “I have the advantage now, and
relinquish it I will not. Go your ways, Lieutenant Boston Bainbridge
Holmes, spy and cheat that you are, and let us go ours. It will be
better.”

The friends drew off and consulted for some time. There seemed no
feasible way of getting into the house, with the fearful menace of Van
Zandt before their eyes. It was fully concluded to appear to draw off
from the house, and by underhand means to gain an entrance. This was
communicated to the defenders of the house, and every one appeared to
leave the spot. Leaving the window to the care of one of his men, the
Dutch captain turned aside into the little room in which the girls were
confined. They sat upon the bed, with their arms entwined about each
other, weeping, for every word of the conversation without had come to
their ears.

“Go into the next room, Katrine,” said Joseph, “and do me the favor to
keep your ear from the crack. I wish to talk with Theresa.”

“I shall stay here,” replied Katrine.

“Fool!” was the uncomplimentary rejoinder. “Must I send for Carl Anselm
to drag you out by force?”

“No, no!” pleaded the girl. “Any one but Carl.”

“I should please you if I sent for Bainbridge, only that worthy is dead.”

“Was it true,” said Katrine, turning her tearful eyes upon him. “Is he
indeed dead? Tell me when and by whose hand. I heard you say that he was
dead. Until then, I thought it was _his_ voice.”

“He died by his own hand,” was the pitiless reply. “Boston Bainbridge
is no more. The man whose voice you heard was Lieutenant Robert Holmes.
Leave the room.”

Katrine obeyed, passing into the next apartment and closing the door.
She took the precaution to bolt the door upon the inside, so that Carl,
who had uttered fearful threats since she had been a prisoner, could not
enter. He came soon and rattled at the door, but she would not let him
in.

In the next room Joseph and Theresa stood face to face. There was a
settled gloom upon the face of the man. His fate was following him so
close that it appalled him. He begun to doubt if, after all, he should
succeed in his undertaking. Ho grew desperate, as he looked at the girl,
who was wonderfully calm in his presence.

“Why do you come?” she asked.

“I come to speak for your good, Theresa. I have told you many times that
love for you had taken a deep root in my heart. Do what you can, be cold
or disdainful, the feeling is the same. You have made me a desperate man.
I have you utterly in my power, you and Katrine. One thing only will open
yonder doors, and set you free.”

“And that thing—”

“Is to take a solemn oath upon this holy sign” (making the cross on his
breast) “that you will never marry another while I live, and that you
will be my wife when I ask it.”

“If you had studied all your life to devise a cruel sentence, your study
could not have brought to life a more wicked one than this. No, Joseph
Van Zandt, you have had my answer. I have nerved myself to meet death, if
it must be, sooner than be your wife.”

“You must swear it upon the cross,” he rejoined, “lest a worse fate come
to you. Reflect, and tell me if there is not at least one thing worse
than death. Reflect, too, that this fate shall be yours, and that of the
sniveling fool in the next room, if you refuse. The threat of what I
would do has driven your brave friend away from the house. I have sworn
to do it, and I will keep my word.”

“God will protect me.”

“I am an unbeliever. Your faith can not shake me. Perhaps He will protect
you. Perhaps He will batter down these strong gates, and let your friend
in. It is very probable! Foolish girl! yield while the way is clear.”

“No, I will not. My friends will attack the house and set me free. You
shall feel what it is to arouse the vengeance of a true man. Go; you are
a coward. The heart of a dog beats in your breast. You threaten a woman,
and make her love for her friends work against her for your own foul
ends. You never had one true feeling in your heart. What you call love
for me is only a passion, which would burn itself out in a twelve-month.
Leave me, and do your worst.”

He rushed from the room, closing the door violently behind him. Carl
stood with his face against the wall of the room, gnawing his nether lip
with such energy that the blood started from beneath his white teeth. The
two men saw in each other’s faces the mirror wherein to read their own
hearts.

“I hear strange sounds,” said Carl; “and blood seems to run before my
eyes. If she were to open that door now, I should kill her. I am getting
mad, I think. Was I not right about that devil upon earth? I will kill
him yet, for he is the cause of all this.”

“You were right enough. He is a brave fellow, in his gay clothes.”

“To see him now, with his hair curled and his sword at his thigh! To hear
the grand tone in which he speaks! Will he take her, now that she is in a
more lowly station than he? It would be much to hope that he would slight
her now. Oh, that he would?”

“But he will not. These Puritans have queer ideas of honor, and would
think it a shame to their manhood to break faith plighted to a woman. I
have given your little fool a bitter pill to swallow. I told her he was
dead. She heard enough of our conversation to hear us say that, and she
believes it. Do these rascals show any signs of a desire to attack us?”

“I have lost sight of some of them, and can not tell where they are gone.
The rest sit out yonder by the other houses, eating breakfast.”

“Whom do you miss?”

“Robert Holmes is gone, and so is your friend Barlow. What if they
_should_ set the girls free.”

“The windows are bolted.”

“I know it, on the inside. What is to hinder the girls from opening them?”

“They are spiked down. I tell you they have not the strength to open
one, even if they could get a signal from the outside. Did you see those
fellows go away?”

“They slipped out of sight, and I think went out of the gate. After that,
I came to this door and tried to get in.”

“And failed.”

“Yes; it is bolted.”

“I didn’t think Katrine would do it. I begin to respect her. What is
that, Jan?”

The man who was at the window spoke:

“The truce is over, sir.”

“Are they coming?”

“Yes, captain.”

“Get your guns ready, then. Where is your rifle, Carl?”

“Here, sir.”

“Mark that Barlow.”

“I can not. My bullet has another work to do. When Robert Holmes is dead
it is at your service.”

“Say you so. Well, I do not care. I have no love for him. These rascals
come on slowly. They are well versed in woodcraft. Something different
from the way our blockheads came up to the stockade at Windsor. Fire
whenever you get a chance, boys.”

The men of Windsor came forward with care, sheltering themselves as
well as they could behind the buildings in the works. As they came to
the last one, they paused and begun a close fire upon the house. Every
head which showed itself at a loop-hole became the mark of a bullet. One
of Van Zandt’s men was shot through the head before they had been in
action five minutes. The defenders saw that it was no boys’-play now, and
hesitated about approaching the windows. The captain ordered them all to
lie down, knowing that their fire could do no harm unless the men exposed
themselves. He took his place at one of the loops to watch, taking care
not to give any of the marksmen a shot. But a lively fire was kept up,
and he dared not go away.

“Watch that side, Carl,” he said, pointing to the other loop. “If they
get under the walls we shall have trouble.”

The moment Joseph left the room Theresa was upon her feet, and the strong
bar dropped into its place before the door. Then, looking into the other
room, she called to Katrine.

“Rouse up, dear,” she said. “Do not lie down like a child. You have
bolted your door—good. When these dear creatures in the next room come
for us we may not be here. Bring me that stool. We will give them the
slip yet. See if we do not.”

“Oh, Theresa,” said Katrine, rising, “_he_ is dead!”

“Don’t you believe it. That fellow can lie, and you know it. Hold this
stool steady so that I shall not fall.”

Katrine obeyed, and Theresa mounted the stool, and took down a stout
saber which hung from a pair of branching antlers over her head. She
lifted the stout weapon, and looked at it with beaming eyes.

“My grandfather’s sword,” she said. “It has struck good blows for
the honor of his nation. May it do as much for the honor of his
granddaughter.”

Assisted by Katrine, Theresa mounted the wide window-sill, and strove to
pry up the spikes which had been driven in to close the lattice. But they
were strong and resisted her best efforts. Seeing the uselessness of this
attempt, she begun to cut away the inner fastenings of the lattice bars,
and with the aid of the now active Katrine, at length succeeded with but
little noise, in detaching the ends of these bars. The way of escape was
then gained, since it was hardly five feet from the ground.

“We are safe,” whispered Theresa. “Let us thank God.”

The two fell upon their knees for a moment, before they attempted an
escape. The shots had begun to fall about the building. Katrine passed
out first, and Theresa followed, still bearing her grandfather’s sword.




CHAPTER XI.

IT IS FINISHED.


Passing around the house to escape from the rear, the two girls suddenly
came upon two men, whom, in the darkness, they conceived to be Van Zandt
and Carl.

Theresa, in the excitement of the moment, lifted her sword in her hand
and pointed it at the breast of the nearest, who rushed toward her.

“Stand back,” she cried; “I will not be taken alive.”

“Theresa!”

“Willie!”

The strength which had sustained her until this moment gave way, and she
sunk into the arms of her lover.

“Let us away,” said Willie. “Come, Robert, you are slow.”

Robert Holmes dropped the bar with which he had been prying open the
window, and came forward, saying:

“Our work is taken out of our hands. Katrine, have you no greeting for
me, now that I am no longer Boston Bainbridge, but Robert Holmes?”

His voice broke the spell; she was in his arms in a moment, sobbing.
“They told me you were dead. I thought I knew your voice.”

“Let us get out of this, Robert,” said Willie. “You had better carry
Katrine. How much they must have endured.”

“Preserve the sword, Willie,” whispered Theresa, “it has saved me.”

Keeping in the rear of the house, they stole out of the postern gate
through which they had entered, and soon placed the girls in safety in
the house which was first taken. This done, the young men went back to
their duty. Van Curter was there.

“Have you succeeded?” he cried, taking his cue from their happy faces.

“Yes, thank God, the girls are out of that villain’s power, and we have
nothing to restrain us from an attack upon the house. Give me that white
scarf, and I will speak to them.”

“Be careful, Robert,” said his brother; “they are desperate men, and may
not respect the flag.”

“Robert took a ramrod, and fastened the white scarf upon it. Ordering his
men to cease firing, the young man passed into the parade and called to
Van Zandt.

“Why are you here again?” he demanded, angrily.

“To ask you to yield. Why should we shed blood, when nothing can be
gained? Open your doors and let us enter.”

“You ask in vain,” was the stern answer; “you want the girls, I suppose;
but you shall never see the face of Katrine, and Theresa has bid good-by
forever to your friend Barlow. So away with you if you would save _them_
trouble.”

“If you could look into the room where you placed the girls, you would
see a broken casement and an empty cage. The girls are safe in our hands.”

“A Yankee horse-trader’s lie.”

“Go and see.”

Van Zandt rushed away and tried the door of Theresa’s room; it was fast
bolted. He soon dashed a hole in it with the butt of his heavy rifle, and
saw the empty cage of which the other had spoken: the nest was warm, but
the birds had flown.

He went back and whispered to Carl; their conference over, Van Zandt went
again to the window.

“What terms can we make?”

“The terms shall be the same as those given to Van Curter.”

“To all?”

“To every one.”

“I ask no more,” said the Dutch captain. “Go down and open the door, Jan.”

The doors opened and they passed out, Joseph and Carl looking back with
strange meaning on the shattered window from which the girls had escaped.
The countenance of the young German, Anselm, pale with contending
passions, looked absolutely hideous under the glare of the rising sun.
He had been foiled at every point; the revenge he had hoped for was torn
from his grasp.

“Bear up, Carl,” whispered the young captain; “do not let these villains
see how you are moved.”

He controlled his feelings by an effort of his powerful will. “It shall
be as you say,” he replied in a hushed tone. “They shall be aroused only
by the blow I shall strike them. Do your best, so that we shall pass
another night in this place.”

“I will set about it,” answered the young captain. “I can read your
thoughts.”

“That is well; then I need not speak. Where are the girls.”

“In one of the houses, as I think.”

“Do you see that accursed Holmes? He is going to her, now that he has
triumphed over me. Would it not be a pleasant thing to plunge a knife
into his heart? If he gives me time, I shall do it.”

The two separated, and set about their preparations for departure. It was
found impossible for the former occupants to leave that day, so they were
assigned places outside the fort in the cabins they had built.

Robert slept in the fort, in the room next to that in which the maidens
were, and from which they had escaped. This man was always on his guard.
He never lay down unarmed. His slumber was light, and only needed the
slightest sound to break it. At midnight, he was wakened by a sound as if
some fastening was broken. He raised himself upon his elbow and listened.
The sound was continued. It evidently proceeded from the girls’ room. He
rose with care, and, stepping softly into their apartment, discovered
a dark figure—that of a man—with something gleaming between his closed
teeth, climbing into the window. Robert’s plan was formed in a moment.

The figure was that of Carl. By slow approaches he advanced his body,
until he stood upon the floor of the chamber. He now took the knife,
which he had held in his teeth, from his mouth, and approached the
bedside.

The girls slept soundly. The perils of the night had wearied them
entirely, and they gave themselves wholly to slumber. The murderer,
for he had no less a thought in his heart, bent over them. The clear
moonlight—for the storm of the night before had been succeeded by a
remarkably bright evening—stole through the broken lattice, and fell
upon the upturned faces of the two. In his mad desire to be revenged
upon Robert and Willie, Carl could think of nothing which could wound
them deeper than the death of these pure beings. “They shall die,” he
muttered, “and I will never again look a white man in the face.” The
heart of a demon would have been touched by the beauty of those over whom
he lifted his steel; but the heart of Carl was harder than adamant. The
knife was lifted when a pistol cracked. The murderer, wounded unto death,
dropped the knife and staggered to the window.

“You have triumphed, devil that you are—you have triumphed. I have
nothing left but to die. I curse you with my latest breath,” he said,
recognizing the man who had shot him.

As he spoke his hold upon the window-sill relaxed, and he fell backward
upon the floor. The strong limbs stiffened, and the moon’s rays fell upon
the face of the dead.

Robert quieted the frightened girls, and calling in help, removed the
body. He had, in some way, eluded the guard, and made an entrance into
the works, an unlucky thing for him.

The garrison was permitted, the next morning, to march away, according
to the terms of surrender, with the understanding that by that surrender
they conceded all claims to the occupancy of the Connecticut Valley.

But, all the captives did not retire. The captives Theresa and Katrine
very wisely preferred to remain at Good Hope, which fortress Robert
Holmes had resolved to retain against a future need. But, as preliminary
to such occupancy, the minister was put into requisition, and a double
marriage was consummated that morning at which Colonel Van Curter was
present. Though much against his will, he gave the hand of his child
away, bestowing upon her his benediction in good old Dutch fashion: “If
thee will marry an Englishman, he is the man I shall be content to see
thee wed; so God bless you.” And, the ceremony over, he passed away,
heavy-hearted enough—having lost both fortress and daughter in the
unlucky Good Hope. He soon forgot his sorrows by sailing away to Holland.

Paul Swedlepipe lived to a good old age, ever retaining an unconquerable
aversion to Ten Eyck. To escape persecution, this last-named worthy
removed further up the Hudson river, where he became rich and powerful,
cursing the Yankees with his last breath. Wampset kept his band together
until his death, when it was broken up and merged into the Nipmuck tribe.
For years the Dutch settlers missed Boston Bainbridge, and could hardly
bring themselves to believe that the gallant soldier, of whose fame
they heard so much, was the same man who had supplied them with small
goods and poor horses; nor could they ever understand that his disguise
had been assumed in order to break forever the power of the Dutch in
Connecticut Valley, by gaining information of their designs in their own
houses.


THE END.







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