Chapter 14: The Pursuit on the River

The story of the frontier is filled with heroines, from the far days of Hannah Dustin down to the present, and Mary Newton, whom the unknown figure in the dark had just aroused, is one of them. It had seemed to her that God himself had deserted her, but at the last moment he had sent some one. She did not doubt, she could not doubt, because the bonds had been severed, and there she lay with a deadly weapon in either hand. The friendly stranger who had come so silently was gone as he had come, but she was not helpless now. Like many another frontier woman, she was naturally lithe and powerful, and, stirred by a great hope, all her strength had returned for the present.

Nobody who lives in the wilderness can wholly escape superstition, and Mary Newton began to believe that some supernatural creature had intervened in her behalf. She raised herself just a little on one elbow and surveyed the surrounding thicket. She saw only the dead embers of the fire, and the dark forms of the Indians lying upon the bare ground. Had it not been for the knife and pistol in her hand, she could have believed that the voice was only a dream.

There was a slight rustling in the thicket, and a Seneca rose quickly to his knees, grasping his rifle in both hands. The woman’s fingers clutched the knife and pistol more tightly, and her whole gaunt figure trembled. The Seneca listened only a moment. Then he gave a sharp cry, and all the other warriors sprang up. But three of them rose only to fall again, as the rifles cracked in the bushes, while two others staggered from wounds.

The triumphant shout of the frontiersmen came from the thicket, and then they rushed upon the camp. Quick as a flash two of the Senecas started toward the woman and children with their tomahawks, but Mary Newton was ready. Her heart had leaped at the shots when the Senecas fell, and she kept her courage. Now she sprang to her full height, and, with the children screaming at her feet, fired one barrel of the pistol directly into the face of the first warrior, and served the second in the same way with the other barrel when he was less than four feet away. Then, tomahawk in hand, she rushed forward. In judging Mary Newton, one must consider time and place.

But happily there was no need for her to use her tomahawk. As the five rushed in, four of them emptied their double-barreled pistols, while Henry swung his clubbed rifle with terrible effect. It was too much for the Senecas. The apparition of the armed woman, whom they had left bound, and the deadly fire from the five figures that sprang upon them, was like a blow from the hand of Aieroski. The unhurt and wounded fled deep into the forest, leaving their dead behind. Mary Newton, her great deed done, collapsed from emotion and weakness. The screams of the children sank in a few moments to frightened whimpers. But the oldest, when they saw the white faces, knew that rescue had come.

Paul brought water from the brook in his cap, and Mary Newton was revived; Jim was reassuring the children, and the other three were in the thickets, watching lest the surviving Senecas return for attack.

“I don’t know who you are, but I think the good God himself must have sent you to our rescue,” said Mary Newton reverently.

“We don’t know,” said Paul, “but we are doing the best we can. Do you think you can walk now?”

“Away from the savages? Yes!” she said passionately. She looked down at the dead figures of the Senecas, and she did not feel a single trace of pity for them. Again it is necessary to consider time and place.

“Some of my strength came back while I was lying here,” she said, “and much more of it when you drove away the Indians.”

“Very well,” said Henry, who had returned to the dead camp fire with his comrades, “we must start on the back trail at once. The surviving Senecas, joined by other Iroquois, will certainly pursue, and we need all the start that we can get.”

Long Jim picked up one of the two younger children and flung him over his shoulder; Tom Ross did as much for the other, but the older two scorned help. They were full of admiration for the great woodsmen, mighty heroes who had suddenly appeared out of the air, as it were, and who had swept like a tornado over the Seneca band. It did not seem possible now that they, could be retaken.

But Mary Newton, with her strength and courage, had also recovered her forethought.

“Maybe it will not be better to go on the back trail,” she said. “One of the Senecas told me to-day that six or seven miles farther on was a river flowing into the Susquehanna, and that they would cross this river on a boat now concealed among bushes on the bank. The crossing was at a sudden drop between high banks. Might not we go on, find the boat, and come back in it down the river and into the Susquehanna?”

“That sounds mighty close to wisdom to me,” said Shif’less Sol. “Besides, it’s likely to have the advantage o’ throwin’ the Iroquois off our track. They’ll think, o’ course, that we’ve gone straight back, an’ we’ll pass ‘em ez we’re going forward.”

“It’s certainly the best plan,” said Henry, “and it’s worth our while to try for that hidden boat of the Iroquois. Do you know the general direction?”

“Almost due north.”

“Then we’ll make a curve to the right, in order to avoid any Iroquois who may be returning to this camp, and push for it.”

Henry led the way over hilly, rough ground, and the others followed in a silent file, Long Jim and Tom still carrying the two smallest children, who soon fell asleep on their shoulders. Henry did not believe that the returning Iroquois could follow their trail on such a dark night, and the others agreed with him.

After a while they saw the gleam of water. Henry knew that it must be very near, or it would have been wholly invisible on such a dark night.

“I think, Mrs. Newton,” he said, “that this is the river of which you spoke, and the cliffs seem to drop down just as you said they would.”

The woman smiled.

“Yes,” she said, “you’ve done well with my poor guess, and the boat must be hidden somewhere near here.”

Then she sank down with exhaustion, and the two older children, unable to walk farther, sank down beside her. But the two who slept soundly on the shoulders of Long Jim and Tom Ross did not awaken. Henry motioned to Jim and Tom to remain there, and Shif’less Sol bent upon them a quizzical and approving look.

“Didn’t think it was in you, Jim Hart, you old horny-handed galoot,” he said, “carryin’ a baby that tender. Knew Jim could sling a little black bar ‘roun’ by the tail, but I didn’t think you’d take to nussin’ so easy.”

“I’d luv you to know, Sol Hyde,” said Jim Hart in a tone of high condescension, “that Tom Ross an’ me are civilized human bein’s. In face uv danger we are ez brave ez forty thousand lions, but with the little an’ the weak we’re as easy an’ kind an’ soft ez human bein’s are ever made to be.”

“You’re right, old hoss,” said Tom Ross.

“Well,” said the shiftless one, “I can’t argify with you now, ez the general hez called on his colonel, which is me, an’ his major, which is Paul, to find him a nice new boat like one o’ them barges o’ Clepatry that Paul tells about, all solid silver, with red silk sails an’ gold oars, an’ we’re meanin’ to do it.”

Fortune was with them, and in a quarter of an hour they discovered, deep among bushes growing in the shallow water, a large, well-made boat with two pairs of oars and with small supplies of parched corn and venison hidden in it.

“Good luck an’ bad luck come mixed,” said the shift-less one, “an’ this is shorely one o’ our pieces o’ good luck. The woman an’ the children are clean tuckered out, an’ without this boat we could never hev got them back. Now it’s jest a question o’ rowin’ an’ fightin’.”

“Paul and I will pull her out to the edge of the clear water,” said Henry, “while you can go back and tell the others, Sol.”

“That just suits a lazy man,” said Sol, and he walked away jauntily. Under his apparent frivolity he concealed his joy at the find, which he knew to be of such vast importance. He approached the dusky group, and his really tender heart was stirred with pity for the rescued captives. Long Jim and Silent Tom held the smaller two on their shoulders, but the older ones and the woman, also, had fallen asleep. Sol, in order to conceal his emotion, strode up rather roughly. Mary Newton awoke.

“Did you find anything?” she asked.

“Find anything?” repeated Shif’less Sol. “Well, Long Jim an’ Tom here might never hev found anything, but Henry an’ Paul an’ me, three eddicated men, scholars, I might say, wuz jest natcherally bound to find it whether it wuz thar or not. Yes, we’ve unearthed what Paul would call an argosy, the grandest craft that ever floated on this here creek, that I never saw before, an’ that I don’t know the name uv. She’s bein’ floated out now, an’ I, the Gran’ Hidalgo an’ Majordomo, hev come to tell the princes and princesses, an’ the dukes and dukesses, an’ all the other gran’ an’ mighty passengers, that the barge o’ the Dog o’ Venice is in the stream, an’ the Dog, which is Henry Ware, is waitin’, settin’ on the Pup to welcome ye.”

“Sol,” said Long Jim, “you do talk a power uv foolishness, with your Dogs an’ Pups.”

“It ain’t foolishness,” rejoined the shiftless one. “I heard Paul read it out o’ a book oncet, plain ez day. They’ve been ruled by Dogs at Venice for more than a thousand years, an’ on big ‘casions the Dog comes down a canal in a golden barge, settin’ on the Pup. I’ll admit it ‘pears strange to me, too, but who are you an’ me, Jim Hart, to question the ways of foreign countries, thousands o’ miles on the other side o’ the sea?”

“They’ve found the boat,” said Tom Ross, “an’ that’s enough!”

“Is it really true?” asked Mrs. Newton.

“It is,” replied Shif’less Sol, “an’ Henry an’ Paul are in it, waitin’ fur us. We’re thinkin’, Mrs. Newton, that the roughest part of your trip is over.”

In another five minutes all were in the boat, which was a really fine one, and they were delighted. Mary Newton for the first time broke down and wept, and no one disturbed her. The five spread the blankets on the bottom of the boat, where the children soon went to sleep once more, and Tom Ross and Shif’less Sol took the oars.

“Back in a boat ag’in,” said the shiftless one exultantly. “Makes me feel like old times. My fav’rite mode o’ travelin’ when Jim Hart, ‘stead o’ me, is at the oars.”

“Which is most o’ the time,” said Long Jim.

It was indeed a wonderful change to these people worn by the wilderness. They lay at ease now, while two pairs of powerful arms, with scarcely an effort, propelled the boat along the stream. The woman herself lay down on the blankets and fell asleep with the children. Henry at the prow, Tom Ross at the stern, and Paul amidships watched in silence, but with their rifles across their knees. They knew that the danger was far from over. Other Indians were likely to use this stream, unknown to them, as a highway, and those who survived of their original captors could pick up their trail by daylight. And the Senecas, being mad for revenge, would surely get help and follow. Henry believed that the theory of returning toward the Wyoming Valley was sound. That region had been so thoroughly ravaged now that all the Indians would be going northward. If they could float down a day or so without molestation, they would probably be safe. The creek, or, rather, little river, broadened, flowing with a smooth, fairly swift current. The forest on either side was dense with oak, hickory, maple, and other splendid trees, often with a growth of underbrush. The three riflemen never ceased to watch intently. Henry always looked ahead. It would have been difficult for any ambushed marksman to have escaped his notice. But nothing occurred to disturb them. Once a deer came down to drink, and fled away at sight of the phantom boat gliding almost without noise on the still waters. Once the far scream of a panther came from the woods, but Mary Newton and her children, sleeping soundly, did not hear it. The five themselves knew the nature of the sound, and paid no attention. The boat went steadily on, the three riflemen never changing their position, and soon the day began to come. Little arrows of golden light pierced through the foliage of the trees, and sparkled on the surface of the water. In the cast the red sun was coming from his nightly trip. Henry looked down at the sleepers. They were overpowered by exhaustion, and would not awake of their own accord for a long time.